


Bondmate

by Sita_Z



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Established Relationship, I-Chaya - Freeform, Jim is a linguist, M/M, Matriarchy, Pre-Technological Vulcan, Vulcan Culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-06-05 08:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15167105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sita_Z/pseuds/Sita_Z
Summary: Leonard McCoy and Spock of the Clan of T'Pau are about to be bonded. Not everyone approves of this. A sequel to 'Healer', but it could be read on its own.





	1. Guests

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is as promised, a sequel to 'Healer' - sorry to keep you waiting so long! I'd been hoping to begin posting long before this, but RL had other plans... Anyway, I hope those of you asking for a sequel haven't given up hope :).
> 
> Great news: I have a beta this time - MissManiac kindly offered to beta for me and has been doing a wonderful job. Thank you so much! All remaining mistakes are mine, of course.
> 
> Please note that there are two parts to this story: We'll begin with a Sarek/Amanda arc telling the backstory of Spock's birth, and continue with established Spones in the second part, which is set several months after the events of 'Healer'. For those of you who haven't read 'Healer': I hope this story can stand on its own, although much of its worldbuilding relies heavily on the pre-technological Vulcan culture I set up in the first story. 
> 
> As always, please enjoy and share your thoughts :)!

**_Amanda_ **

It is five months when she finally runs the scan – five months of lightheadedness, of vomiting, of irregularities that even her unreliable menstrual cycle doesn’t explain away.

Five months, and even then she doesn’t believe it. She recalibrates the medical tricorder, and again runs the diagnostic scanner over the small bump that she believed was bloating and too many chocolate bars from her secret stash.

It is impossible, but there it is. The fetus. A being inside her, an alien with green blood (98.6 percent copper-based, the tricorder says) and very likely, a pair of pointed ears. She should be in some kind of intensive care facility, watched by xenobiologists and doctors 24/7, the subject of scientific poking and prodding. She is not. She is at some remote research station on a far-flung desert planet, and no one else knows that she has a biological impossibility hidden away under the thick fabric of her ThermoGarb.

No one else knows that she violated Starfleet’s policy of non-interference in a way nobody could have predicted.

She feels very calm, calmer than she should be. She should be panicking, but it is as if someone else has taken over and banned the hyperventilating, sobbing part of her into a far corner, where useless things go when you don’t need them. That cool and rational person who seems to be in possession of her brain goes through the options one by one, laying them out clearly as if she were drawing up plans for a new project.

A – She can get one of the medics involved and terminate the pregnancy. They would be bound by doctor-patient confidentiality to keep her records sealed.

B – She can get one of the medics involved, get shipped off to that intensive care facility on Earth and have her medical miracle under the eyes of Starfleet scientists.

C – She can do nothing and hope that things will take care of themselves. This isn’t your standard pregnancy after all, and she does not have to be a xenobiologist to know that the being inside her might not be viable. Might not even be a person, just an accumulation of cells that was never meant to be. Nature might just take its course.

So much for the rational person’s options.

C is out, obviously – too many unpredictabilities.

B sounds like her own personal purgatory.

And A… well, neither the cool, rational person nor the useless sobbing lump in the far corner paid much attention to the image on the tricorder’s screen, but Amanda did.

She took a very close look. The tiny being inside her had his arms curled around his head, as if hiding his face from the relentless sun that beats down on his native planet. Ten fingers, ten toes; two strong feet that kick hard enough to make her skin bulge and buckle (and how could she not have realized what was going on, how could she have deluded herself so successfully?). She knows – not rationally, not in any explainable way, but she knows that he is not just a growth of cells. He is her son.

For the next four weeks, Amanda thinks long and hard. She keeps up the pretense of heat sickness (which isn’t hard to do – many of the techs and researchers suffer from the heat and no one takes much notice of a linguist who seems to have it particularly bad). She runs daily scans and marvels at the images on the screen (and yes, they terrify her, too, and that’s okay. She is the first human to grow an alien in her womb – outside of gory vintage science fiction, that is). She takes walks out on the plains, and sometimes she cries, and that’s okay, too. And in the evening, when everyone else has retreated to recover from a hard day’s work in the heat, she writes. It’s the best proposal she’s written in the entirety of her academic career, and if she’d known how much her powers of persuasion could be inspired by desperate circumstances, she would have broken the law before.

(And did they really break the law, Sarek and she, that night on the plains? Starfleet has no written statutes on the issue, because none of the desk jockeys in Admin could even imagine a situation like this. But they were breaking _Vulcan_ law, no doubt about that; Amanda is familiar enough with Vulcan culture to know exactly what happens to a man if he is caught sleeping with a woman who is not his wife. She doesn’t even have the excuse of ignorance. And still she went ahead; they both did.)

Professor Sato is surprised at her proposal, to say the least, and for a day or two Amanda is certain that she will refuse it. Too risky, too much skirting the rules Starfleet set for interacting with the Vulcan indigenous population. Sato insists on strictly observed guidelines, and Amanda understands why; if anything happened (like, say, one of the sociolinguists getting pregnant by a native), their funding would be gone in an instant.

It’s another reason why Amanda prays to any desert gods that might be listening that Sato will approve her ‘project’.

The desert gods grant her mercy (maybe because she is carrying one of their charges.) Sato gives her nod of approval, allowing Amanda Grayson to go and live with the clan of T’Pau for a period of up to twelve weeks. ‘Cultural immersion’, Amanda called it in her proposal. It has been done before, but never for more than four weeks at a time. _A lengthy period of close contact will allow me to experience cultural situations as a casual observer, rather than a ‘guest of honor’, resulting in an as yet unparalleled authenticity of data_ , Amanda wrote, believing every word of it. Giving birth to a Vulcan baby is certainly a level of cultural immersion no sociolinguist before her has attained).

Sammy and Ahmed, her team colleagues, don’t even try to hide their displeasure that Amanda went behind their backs with her proposal. Their goodbyes are decidedly cold, and Amanda regrets it; she likes them both. But there is nothing she can about the fact that she has to do this on her own.

The Vulcan delegation comes to pick her up, and she finds herself sitting on one of those furry beasts, concentrating hard on keeping her lunch down as her woven saddle sways gently back and forth. And despite everything she is excited, simply because she knows that she will see him, that she will be able to talk to him.

Because she is a fool like that.

 

**_Sarek_ **

It is five months when his grandmother finally asks him to come to her tent – five months, and still he knows what she is going to say. He can see it in her eyes, feel it in the brushes of her stern mind when she touches him.

In the privacy of his own thoughts, Sarek admits that he is afraid.

He stirs the wind chimes at the entrance to her tent and waits, as is tradition. No clan member, and certainly no man, would enter T’Pau’s tent without invitation, not even her favorite grandson. Although Sarek may no longer be her favorite; not anymore. There is really no excuse for what he has done.

Safik, T’Pau’s first husband, opens the tent flap and moves to let Sarek step inside. Sarek bows before he follows the silent invitation. Safik, almost as old as his wife and a knowledgeable herbal healer, is the highest-ranking man in the clan, respected by everyone. Sarek hopes he won’t be present for the conversation that will follow.

Murov, T’Pau’s youngest husband, is out herding sehlats as he does every day, but Lesek is there, grinding _nei-savas_ berries in a mortar. He throws Sarek an ill-humored glance before turning back to his work. Sarek likes Lesek the least of all his grandfathers, and always wondered why T’Pau married the bad-tempered man. Lesek’s left ear is missing, bit off by a dust adder when he was a baby, and some say the adder took his good spirits along with his ear. Sarek cannot remember he has ever seen the man approve of something.

“The lady is in the assembly room,” Safik says. “You may enter.”

T’Pau’s tent is the largest in the village, and has four separate compartments instead of the usual two or three. One of those is for the Clan Elders to hold their meetings, where they discuss important matters such as the sehlat trade, marriages and questions of clan law. It is where T’Pau asks clan members to come if she has something very serious to say. The last time Sarek entered that room, he learned that he was going to be married.

He draws back the curtain that separates the assembly room from the rest of the tent. His grandmother is sitting cross-legged at a low table, a number of writing slates spread before her. She is the one to keep the books on their trade, and knows every last sehlat and _jarel_ horse the clan owns. At her feet, a little boy of two or three is playing with a toy made of colorful strings and beads. Sarek recognizes Sular, Safik’s youngest grandson.

“Sarek,” T’Pau says. “Grandchild. Come in and be seated.”

“My lady.” Sarek obeys, kneeling on the embroidered mat meant for visitors and miscreants (as he knows, one can quickly become the other in the presence of Lady T’Pau). His grandmother offers him the traditional cup of water and he drinks, trying to project dignity and calm. It is, after all, what she expects.

“Safik,” T’Pau says.

Her first husband enters, having expected the call. “Shall I take Sular now, my lady?”

“Please do, “T’Pau replies. “Give him some of the _kreylah_ Murov made this morning. Say goodbye to this old woman, Sular,” she says to the boy, who touches her hand with his tiny fingers. “You are the joy of my weary days.”

Safik picks him up. “I shall take Sular to my daughter’s tent.”

T’Pau nods. “Take Lesek, too. It will do him good to go visiting.”

Lesek, as everyone knows, is a notorious eavesdropper, and Sarek is glad to know he won’t be crouched outside the curtain, his remaining ear cocked to catch every word.

“Yes, my lady.” Safik leaves, and a few moments later, Sarek hears Lesek’s affronted voice.

“I have work to do, co-husband! I do not have time to visit with your family and listen to their endless chatter. Besides, what important business can that _duh-nu’ri-sa_ have that requires such discretion?”

Safik says something that Sarek does not understand, but it seems to silence Lesek, who merely snorts in reply. The tent flap opens and closes, and they are gone, leaving Sarek alone with his grandmother, who looks at him in a way that makes him wish a sandstorm would envelop him and carry him off across the plains.

When she speaks, however, it is not the harsh tone of reprimand he expected. “The _rushan_ have sent a messenger,” she says. “They ask to see us. They ask to send us a guest.”

This has happened before, and it is not usually a matter the _pid-kom_ would discuss with her grandson. “An honor, my lady.”

“It is.” Her dark eyes never leave his face. “The _rushan_ honor us with their presence and their generosity.”

“They do, my lady.”

“They are kind to every member of this clan, be it woman, man or child.”

“They are, my lady.”

“Should a young man shame this clan with his behavior… cause us to lose face in front of our honorable guests… what punishment do you propose, grandson?”

Sarek’s throat feels very dry. “I… I do not know, my lady. It is not for me to decide such matters.”

“Indeed, it is not.” She still does not take her eyes off him. “Our _rushan_ guest is a lady of the name _T’Amanda Grh’aysn_.” The foreign syllables sound harsh from her mouth, not at all how Sarek remembers them. “Is there anything you wish to tell me, grandchild?”

Sarek understands. This is his one chance – the only one his grandmother is going to give him, and it is more than he deserves. She would be within her rights to have him flogged in the village square.

He bows his head until his forehead touches the rough surface of the mat. “I beg forgiveness, _pid-kom_. I have offended.”

A long silence follows, and Sarek does not dare raise his head. Eventually, T’Pau sighs.

“Sit up, grandson. I do not wish to look at your braid when I talk to you.”

He does, slowly raising his eyes to meet hers. “It-it was not malice, _pid-kom_. We were… overcome…”

T’Pau holds up a hand, silencing him. “You are married, grandson.”

Sarek lowers his head. “This one is a disobedient and foolish man.”

His grandmother sighs again, impatient. “I do not need empty words, Sarek. I am not as blind as you think. I know your marriage with T’Paal is not… fulfilling.”

Sarek is reminded of the first time he was asked into this room. Trembling with fever, he had knelt on this very mat, in front of his grandmother and another woman almost as old as her. T’Paal had looked at him and sighed. _“He is young and handsome, T’Pau, but I am weary. Are not two husbands enough for an old woman?”_

But there had been no one else. Sarek’s Time had been almost upon him, and his mother did not wish him to be married off to another clan. So T’Paal it was, T’Paal who quenched his Fire with routine ease, T’Paal who rose afterwards and asked him to rub her back with _kwon-morik_ salve. “ _Ay’ka, it gets more uncomfortable every time, I swear. You almost broke my ribs, young man. At least I am too old to carry children, thank the spirits. Do make sure you clean the sheets.”_

It had been the only time he shared his lady’s bed. T’Paal preferred to sleep alone, leaving the family bed to her husbands. Sarek soon discovered that his co-husbands, Sren and Kor, were long-time lovers and did not cease their activities just because there was a third person in the bed. He had no desire to join in (he had never been interested in males; besides, Sren and Kor were… old), and so he slept alone on a mat in the corner. This was his family, his married life that was supposed to be a man’s fulfilment – three old people who snored and farted, who never went to the desert games or the hot springs, who scolded him for leaving his riding gear lying around and told him not to wear green tunics as it wasn’t ‘proper’.

He had spent his days in the plains or with the sehlats, his evenings joking and playing in the village square with other young people until the Elders chased them back to their tents.

And then there had been… her. _Amanda_. There is no T’ in front of her name, Sarek knows, and she is different from everyone he has ever met. She is _rushan_. She is his love.

“T’Paal was there in my time of need,” he says. “But she is not for me, grandmother. I… I cherish another.”

“No.” There it is, the harsh tone that sends even T’Les cowering, and Sarek knows that he is powerless. “I forbid, grandchild. It is only I who knows of your indiscretion, and that is how it shall remain. The _rushan_ lady will be our guest, and you shall stay away from her. You shall not speak to her, you shall not cross her path. Do you understand?”

Sarek lowers his head. “Yes, _pid-kom_. I understand and I obey.”

But even as he says it, he knows that for the first time in his life, he is lying to his grandmother. He will not stay away. He can’t.

Because he is a fool like that.

* * *

Vulcan phrases (based on the Vulcan Language Dictionary at starbase-10.de/vld/)

 _ **rushan:**_ human, literally 'spirit of the air'

 _ **pid-kom**_ : matriarch

 _ **duh-nu'ri-sa**_ : foolish young man


	2. Birth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments! Part of the dialogue in this chapter was adapted from Star Trek 2009, deleted scene of Spock's birth.

Sarek’s son is born on the plains.

That in itself is not unusual. Many women prefer to leave the village when their time comes, taking only their husbands to help with the delivery and protect them from wild animals. A birth is a sacred thing, a secret thing, not for the eyes and ears of those not involved.

Yet for his son, there will be no welcoming fire in the village square. There will be no blessing by the _pid-kom_ , no colorful strings braided into Sarek’s hair to honor him for the first child he sired for his lady. There will be no singing and no feast.

Sarek stole into Amanda’s tent at the dead of night, sensing her desperation, the pains that came in waves and made her want to cry out and claw at her sleeping mat. And all he could think of was to take her hand and lead her out, to help her onto I-Chaya and let the old sehlat take them to that sacred place where women give the gift of life.

There is a small cave by a secret desert well, and Amanda lies on the stone floor, groaning and cursing in the _rushan_ tongue, forgetting in her agony that he cannot understand her. Sarek guards his lady as is his duty, his spear and bow ready should a desert predator show its face.

Vulcan women are silent through their births, proving themselves to be strong warriors and worthy leaders. If a woman delivers a child without a single word of complaint, her husbands will brag about it, proud to be married to such a brave and honorable lady.

Amanda is not silent. She screams and clutches at his arm hard enough to leave dark green bruises. She cries and is not ashamed of her tears. She bleeds, her strange red blood soaking the moss and linen Sarek brought. And when, finally, she holds her son in her arms, she laughs and pets his face, his wisps of black hair, his yet invisible brows.

“He has your eyes, my lady,” Sarek says. His son’s eyes are dark like his mother’s, not grey like his father’s, and there is something otherworldly about them… something _rushan_.

“And your ears,” Amanda laughs, stroking the tiny points. “No name, though.”

Sarek hesitates. On his world, the head of house chooses names for her children, and it is her decision whether to consider the father’s wishes. Amanda is different, however; he learned long ago that she does not think of herself as his superior… in any way.

“I had a thought,” he begins, “that we might name the child after one of my ancestors. He lived a long time ago, and it was his marriage to a desert queen that brought peace to the clans. His name was Spokh - ‘unifier’.”

“Spock,” Amanda says, trying out the name. “Spock. I like it. Hello Spock.”

She strokes her son’s cheeks, and Sarek sees fresh tears well up in her eyes.

“What are we going to do, Spock?” Amanda whispers. “Whatever are we going to do with you?”

Sarek remains silent. He is not going to say anything, not now.

Amanda wipes the tears away with a gesture that speaks of resolution. “We – we can’t hide him, not any longer. We have to tell them.”

Sarek picks up a cup of herbal infusion he prepared and hands it to her. “Here, my lady. Drink. This will ease your pain.”

She drinks gratefully. “We’ll go back in the morning and tell T’Pau. And then we’ll take him to base camp, have Dr Boyce check him over. There… there’s got to be a way…”

Sarek says nothing. He has seen in her mind how it is – has seen it when she told him about the pregnancy and he held her close in that way _rushan_ do. She has broken her people’s law much as he has broken his. If they learn of Spokh’s existence, she will be shamed and lose her position. She will be sent back to her world – to _R’th_ – and there will be shamans and healers and learned _rushan_ who watch her and the child day and night. There will be talk of her in every clan, in every house. She will never resume the life she lived before. His son will never be anything but an oddity to be stared at and spoken about in hushed tones.

Sarek has made his decision.

“I cherish you, my lady,” he says, and she smiles at him with tired eyes.

“I love you, Sarek. And maybe it’s stupid, but I don’t regret it. Any of it.”

She lays back on the makeshift bed he created of mats and blankets, and her eyes begin to droop. The baby on her belly stirs, and she wakes once more.

“Do… do you think I should try and feed him? I just don’t know…”

“Do not trouble yourself, _ashayam_ ,” Sarek says. He brushes his fingers over her sweaty forehead, sending thoughts of rest and peace. “Spokh will be cared for.”

She nods and allows her eyes to drift shut again. He sits quietly and watches as her breathing evens out, calming the child who falls asleep as well. This, he knows, is his family, and he will do his duty and protect them. He cannot spare them pain and separation, but he can make sure his lady does not live a life in shame.

Amanda soon falls into a deep slumber, exhausted by the strains of labor and aided by the sleep berries Sarek stirred into the herbal infusion. He knows she will not wake for many hours – enough time for him to do what has to be done.

He whistles softly, and I-Chaya slinks into the cave, her fur sandy from where she rested on the ground outside.

“Old friend,” he says to her, knowing that the animal understands. “Mother of many. I will leave now. You will guard my love. Stay with her until she wakes, and do not leave her. Carry her back to the village when she is strong enough.”

I-Chaya nudges him with her great snout, then sniffs the tiny bundle in Amanda’s arms.

“Yes,” Sarek says. “This is Spokh, my son. He is yours to guard and protect.”

I-Chaya grunts at this and lies down on the cave floor, her great bulk a protective wall in front of the sleeping woman. Sarek knows that no predator will get past her, be it a rabid _le-matya_ or a deadly sand viper. Amanda’s sleep will be undisturbed.

He kneels down next to her sleeping form. Her face is calm in repose, and only a thin film of sweat bears witness to the hours of pain she has gone through. Her beauty is alien, so different from a Vulcan woman’s hawkish features. Her cheeks are soft, almost like a child’s. Her hair light brown and curly like the mane of a _jarel_ horse.

He brushes a sticky lock back from her forehead and places his middle and index fingers on her lips in a Vulcan kiss.

“Sleep well, _ashayam_. And forgive me. It is best this way – for all of us.”

Gently, careful not to disturb her, he takes the child into his arms. Spokh is wrapped into a thick woven blanket and will not become chilled in the cool air of the nightly desert. His son sleeps, dreaming the nameless dreams of those who haven’t been part of this world for long.

Quietly, his bow slung over his shoulder and his child held in his arms, Sarek leaves the Place of Birth, walking past the well and the grove of trees that guards it. As he passes a copse of _g’teth_ bushes, he pauses and breaks off several branches which he puts into his shoulder bag. The strong, earthy smell of the plant clings to his hands, but it will be gone in the morning.

The plains are still, a landscape of angular shadows and silhouettes. On Amanda’s world, there is an orb in the sky called _m’un_ , which gives light and guides a nightly traveler’s steps. He has seen it in her thoughts, along with many things his fellow clan members would not believe, should he tell them about it.

His world has no _m’un_ , and the only light comes from the stars, which she says are suns far, far away.

Sarek walks on.

* * *

Lesek is an early riser, and always has been. He likes being up before everyone else, going about his business before his wife and co-husbands get up and hassle him with one thing or another. These are the best hours of his day – no chattering, no visitors traipsing about the tent, no cooking smells from one of Murov’s over-seasoned meals. Blessed silence. Sometimes he wishes they would sleep all day.

He washes as he does every morning, braids his hair and puts on a fresh tunic before he leaves to look after his _jarel_ horses. Strictly speaking, the little herd belongs to T’Pau – everything her husbands own is hers by law – but she has never shown much of an interest in the animals. Lesek prefers it that way. The horses are his to care for, and he finds that they are better company than the entire clan put together. Horses do not talk. Horses do not expect him to go visiting or wait on his wife. Horses do not call him _One Ear_ or _Old Le-Matya_. Horses are simply there, content to be fed, watered and milked. Wish that people were as easy to deal with.

Lesek steps out of the tent into the cool morning air. The sun has not yet risen, the only harbingers of the day a few gray streaks at the horizon. He has a few hours yet before the village wakes and begins their noisy morning routine.

Lesek sets off for the well, remembering how Murov asked him to leave a bucketful of water next to the fireplace (“ _You don’t have to stand in line, getting up that early, and I could get morning meal started before the rush_ ”). Lesek has no intention of doing so, of course. He is still second husband, and will not take orders from a foolish boy who talks too much and spends hours braiding _lara_ feathers into his hair. Murov can get his own water, thank you very much. Lesek will get water for his horses and not a drop more.

A child squalls, interrupting his train of thoughts. Lesek frowns. Those young men should take care to keep their brats quiet when everyone is asleep. In his day, a father who could not quiet his child would be sent to sleep with the sehlats (or at least, that’s how it should have been).

The child squalls again, and it is only then that Lesek notices something off. The sound does not seem to come from inside a tent, but from somewhere close by. He turns his head slightly, an ingrained habit since he hears almost nothing on his left side. There it is again, coming from T’Paal’s tent, of all places. There hasn’t been a baby in T’Paal’s house for many years.

Curious despite himself, Lesek steps closer. In the semi-dark of early morning, he can make out a bundle of fabric in front of the tent flap… a bundle that moves. Another cry pierces the silence, and now there can be no doubt about it. A child has been left in front of T’Paal’s tent. A newborn. And there is something else beside it, something that catches Lesek’s attention immediately.

Reaching out, he picks up one the _g’teth_ branches left next to the bundle. So it is like that, is it. No wonder. That Sarek could always be seen in the village square or at the games, instead of at home where a decent young husband belongs. Lesek is not surprised the little harlot was not satisfied with his old wife and two elderly co-husbands. Well, this should turn out to be interesting. Like the old song says, ‘ _g’teth left at his tent, and honor lost forever’_.

He nudges the bundle with his foot, eliciting another cry from the child, and begins to beat the _g’teth_ branch against the tent flap.

“For shame!” Lesek cries, his shrill old voice drowning out the child’s wailing. “For shame, Sarek! For shame!”

The first tent flap opens. T’Sera, T’Paal’s neighbor, pokes out her head, blinking sleep from her eyes.

“What is it with the noise, Lesek?”

Lesek continues beating the branch against the tent, and for once doesn’t care about having the silence of morning interrupted.

“For shame!” he shouts. “ _G’teth_ at Sarek’s tent! May he cover his face and kneel in repentance! For shame!”

T’Sera looks much more awake now, taking in the bundle on the ground and the incriminating branches around it. “Are you certain?”

“For shame! For shame! _G’teth_ at Sarek’s tent!”

More tent flaps begin to open, and Lesek smiles at the sight. This is turning out to be his best morning in a long time.


	3. Justice

Kneeling under the Great Tree in the village square, Sarek keeps his head lowered. He focuses on the sleeping face of the child in his arms – the child who slumbers peacefully, his belly full of _jarel_ milk. His son may hear the jeers from those passing by, may even feel it when a handful of sand is flung at the two of them, but he does not understand the significance. He is safe in his father’s arms, and Sarek finds himself comforted by the thought.

No matter the disgrace he brought upon himself, his son is safe. And so is his _ashayam_.

He hears steps coming closer, but does not look up. A sharp pain whips across his cheek; a _g’teth_ branch, maybe one he broke off himself.

“Harlot!” It is T’Les, his older cousin. “Whore! You shame our clan today! You and your _mesh’ka_ child!”

She continues to beat him on his head and back, and Sarek draws the child in his arms closer, curling around him to make sure he won’t be hit. He begged Sren and Kor to take Spokh when the crowd came to drag him away, but his co-husbands refused, intimidated by the angry people who so suddenly invaded their tent. And so Sarek must do what many disgraced men did before him – kneel under the Great Tree in shame, the source of his dishonor in his arms for everyone to see.

T’Les finally lowers the branch. Someone else steps forward, one of the older village men. He is holding a knife. Sarek knows what he is about to do.

“Hold him!”

Hands grab his head, forcing it down. A fist closes around his braid, and he feels a harsh tug as the sharp blade begins to saw through his hair. A final ripping sound, a push that almost sends him falling, and his cut-off braid is thrown into the sand at his knees. Sarek stares at it, not really seeing.

“There, harlot. Not so handsome now, are you?”

They begin to rub _ulm-razh_ into his cropped hair, a yellowish ocher that will stick for weeks and mark him as a shamed one - as if anyone needed reminding. T’Les grabs a handful of his remaining hair and yanks his head back. He cannot avoid looking at her now. Her face is a grimace of anger.

“The _pid-kom_ should turn you and that bastard of yours out into the desert!”

Sarek finds he can speak, after all. “My child has done no wrong, Lady T’Les.”

She slaps him across the face. “You dare answer back! Shut your insolent mouth!”

“Lady T’Les.”

T’Les turns around. “What is it, Safik?”

T’Pau’s husband pauses before continuing. “Lady, the _pid-kom_ asks that Sarek and the child be brought before her tent. She will decide what is to be done.”

T’Les narrows her eyes at him, hearing the underlying message as clearly as everyone else: It is up to the _pid-kom_ how Sarek will be punished.

“Well then,” she says. “Up you get, harlot. Hang your head in shame as is proper.”

Sarek gets to his feet, his arms still around his son. His scalp burns from the _ulm-razh_ , and he can feel traces of it trickle down his cheeks. He is hot – he has been kneeling under the tree since early morning, and it is almost noon. His mother came by to bring him a drink of water, but she dared do so only once. Her son has disgraced his house, and the shame rubs off on all his relatives.

He begins to walk towards T’Pau’s tent. It is a short distance, but it appears endless to Sarek, who feels the clan’s eyes like needles on his skin. T’Les and a few other clanspeople follow him, beating his back and legs with _g’teth_ branches.

“Here comes Sarek with his bastard child! Sarek the harlot! Look, here comes the whore with his child!”

Sarek nearly stumbles from the force of their blows. He knew this would happen; he expected everything they did. Yet he did not expect their every word to cut into him like a knife. He did not expect people he considered friends to look at him as if he were sehlat dung under their feet.

“ _Kroykah_!”

There is T’Pau, standing at the entrance to her tent. She holds up a hand and the crowd quiets down at once.

“Sarek,” she says. “Come here.”

He steps forward and kneels at her feet, as is expected. All he can see now are her boots, made of fine _jarel_ leather, and the hem of her long robes.

“You bring this man before me on what charges?” T’Pau asks.

T’Les steps forward. “You see the child in his arms, _pid-kom_! It was left before his tent tonight, with a pile of _g’teth_ branches. Sarek has whored himself!”

T’Pau looks down at Spokh. “Sarek. Is this your child? Speak truthfully, _sasu_ , or I shall take the truth from your mind.”

“He is my son,” Sarek says. “I am the father.”

The crowd hisses in disgust, only to be silenced by T’Pau.

“ _Kroykah_! Every child has a father and a mother. I see no lady here claiming this boy. Who is it, Sarek? Give us her name.”

Sarek does not look at her; he does not look at anyone but his son, who is sleeping peacefully, ignorant of the world around him.

“I have no name to give, _pid-kom_.”

With these words, he admits his guilt. If the father cannot give a name, it means that the mother is married and would deny all charges brought before her. A child only has a mother if she accepts it by word and deed.

“Harlot!” A handful of sand hits him in the face. “Shame on you!”

“ _Kroykah_!” T’Pau sounds angry now, a rare occurrence. “I shall send everyone to their tents if I do not have silence! Lady T’Paal, attend, please. Your husband has been charged with adultery. We shall hear what you have to say.”

Sarek raises his head and sees T’Paal come forward. She looks weary rather than angry, as if she wishes to be anywhere but here.

“Sarek,” she says. “ _Adun_. Is it true what they say? This child is yours?”

“Yes,” he says softly. “I beg your forgiveness, my lady. I have offended greatly.”

T’Paal sighs. “Well then. I told you it was foolish to give me such a young one, T’Pau. Now we all see what has come of it.”

She bends down, groaning quietly at the strain on her back, and scoops up a handful of sand.

“This sand,” she speaks the traditional words, “is my marriage to this man. May the wind take it, may the desert take it, may the spirits carry it away. I cast you out, S’ch’n T’Gai Sarek.”

She lets the sand trickle from her hand. Sarek watches it fall. He knows she has no choice. A woman who keeps an unfaithful husband – and his bastard child, no less – will lose her face irretrievably. He expected this, too.

_My love is safe. My son is safe._

“What shall be done with him, _pid-kom_?” T’Les wants to know. “You should turn him out into the desert as he deserves.”

“No!” It’s Sarek’s mother, and through the numbness that seems to envelop him, he feels a surge of affection for her. “No, _pid-kom_. My son has erred, but he is young. It is my fault. I have given him too much leeway when he was a boy. Do not send him away.”

T’Pau looks down at Sarek. “I warned you, grandson. I told you to what to do, and you have disregarded my orders. Now you must bear the consequences.”

She raises her voice, speaking clearly so that every last clan member can hear her. “S’ch’n T’Gai Sarek, you have been unfaithful to your house and the lady to whom you were given in marriage. You shall spend the day kneeling in repentance here at my tent. No further harm is to come to you,” she adds with a poignant look at T’Les. “If, before the sun sets, a lady comes forward willing to claim you as her husband, you may remain with this clan. If not, we shall send a messenger to the other clans and see if they are in need of a concubine or a servant. That is all.”

* * *

T’Les leaves him alone; even she does not dare go against T’Pau’s explicit orders. After a while, Spokh wakes, and Safik comes out to give Sarek a stoppered drinking bag filled with fresh _jarel_ milk.

“Here,” he says. “You must let him suck slowly. And pat his back when he is done. Here is water to wash him if he relieves himself.”

Sarek wants to thank the older man, but Safik has already disappeared back into the tent. Spokh drinks greedily, and falls asleep again soon after, his tiny hands curled into fists under his chin. My son, Sarek thinks, blinking against the sudden wetness in his eyes. He didn’t cry when they beat him and cut off his braid, not even when his wife cast him out in front of the entire clan. It is the sight of his son, not even a day old and already shunned, that finally brings the tears to his eyes.

_I would do anything to protect you_ , he thinks. _I would give my own life._

If T’Les had her way, he would have. An unfaithful man may be chased out into the desert, but his child will stay with the grandparents, bastard or not. It is the law of the clan – no innocent life shall be taken.

Sarek knew this when he placed Spokh in front of T’Paal’s tent, when he took the _g’teth_ branches from his bag and left them in the sand next to his son.

_My child is safe. My love is safe._

“Sarek.”

He looks up. T’Mar is standing there, his mother’s best friend and long-time neighbor. She used to give Sarek _kreylah_ when he was a boy. Two dark chalk lines on her forehead mark her as one who is in mourning. T’Mar lost her husband and her only daughter to a _le-matya_ not even a rain season ago.

“My lady.” He bows his head, hardly daring to hope.

“Look at me, Sarek.” She waits until he does. “If you wish it, too, I would like you to come live in my tent as my husband. I have spoken to your mother and she gives her consent. What do you say?”

He swallows; his throat is suddenly very dry. She may well withdraw her offer, but he must ask. “What – what of my son, my lady?”

T’Mar looks at Spokh for a long moment. “Give him to me,” she says then.

Sarek hesitates, but finally does as she asks. T’Mar takes the baby in her arms, holds him up and smells his backside. “Yes, I thought so, he needs changing. He’s hot, too. Such a little one should not stay out in the sun for so long. So, I say we end this kneeling-in-repentance nonsense and take him inside. Sarek?”

It feels as if a great rock has been lifted from his soul. “Yes, my lady. I would be glad to.”

“Don’t dawdle, then, get up, get up. I’ve readied some water in my tent for you to wash your head. That _ulm-razh_ dirt must be itching terribly.”

Sarek gets up. His knees ache from kneeling all day, and his back stings with the welts T’Les and the others put there. But his heart feels very light. “Thank you, my lady.”

“What for? A tent is empty without a husband, isn’t it? And I shall be glad to have a little one again. Come now, before T’Les and her ilk get here. I have no patience dealing with their foolishness.”

With that, she turns and walks away carrying his son, who seems to feel right at home in her arms.

Sarek hurries after them. The spirits seem to look down on him in mercy, after all.


	4. Parting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments! This chapter concludes the Sarek and Amanda arc, and we'll continue with Spones in the next one. Enjoy!

When I-Chaya begins to climb the hill to the Vulcan settlement, Amanda can barely hold on anymore. The great furry back sways under her, and even this gentle movement sends waves of agony through her body. She doesn’t know how she managed the trek across the plains, the sun beating down relentlessly as she half-sat, half-lay on the sehlat that carried her. Sarek left several drinking bags and some food, but she felt too sick to do more than take a few sips.

He left, and he took her child. Amanda cannot believe it. Left her out in the desert with only a huge sabertoothed bear for company.

Her entire body aches with exhaustion. She is pretty sure she is bleeding into her ThermoGarb, and where is Sarek? How could he do this? Did he hurt Spock? The thought occurred to her at some point during her hellish journey, and left her feeling cold despite the baking sun. She cannot believe that he would harm his child, but then, what does she really know of him? What does a Vulcan man do with a child he never wanted or planned to have?

No. No, he would not. There has to be an explanation for what he did, and it is not… that. She refuses to believe it.

The first tents come into view. Through a blur, she sees a young man carrying a stack of fire-shrubs. Catching sight of her, the man drops his burden and shouts something, too quickly for her to make out the words. More clanspeople appear, among them T’Rin, Sarek’s mother.

“ _Rushan_!” she cries, running towards her. “Lady T’Amanda! What happened?”

Amanda opens her mouth to say something – ask for her child, perhaps, where is her child, where is _Sarek_? – but the words never make it out. Her grip on I-Chaya’s fur slackens and she feels herself sliding off the animal’s back, unable to do anything to stop her fall.

Strong Vulcan hands catch her before she hits the ground, but Amanda never feels it, her mind lost in oblivion.

* * *

Something cool is placed on her forehead. It is a nice sensation, pleasant even. As she slowly drifts towards consciousness, Amanda finds herself basking in the feeling, so rare on this hot dry world. Cool and moist. Now it’s touching her lips as well. It is only then that she realizes how thirsty she is.

“You are awake.” It’s a man’s voice. Not Sarek’s, though. Amanda opens her eyes and finds herself in an unfamiliar dwelling, not the guest tent she was given when she came to live with the clan. She is lying on a low, Vulcan-style bed, propped on a heap of embroidered pillows. A man is kneeling next to her, a bowl of water beside him. Amanda recognizes Safik, T’Pau’s first husband. There is a sponge in the bowl, and Amanda realizes that he was using it to drip water into her mouth.

“Here,” he says, picks up a cup and holds it carefully to her lips. “Drink, my lady. You need the water.”

She empties the cup and he gives her another, full of blissfully cool water. “Slowly, please, honorable _rushan_. Or you will make yourself sick.”

She takes another sip, wetting her lips. Finally, her mouth begins to feel less like dry leather and more like a part of herself. “Where…” She coughs, then continues. “Where is Sarek?”

Foolish, she knows, to ask after him so openly, but she cannot help it. _He took her child._

Safik does not even blink. “I shall fetch the _pid-kom_ , my lady. She wants to speak with you.” He gets up. “Try and lie still. Your body is weak. I shall be back later with a strengthening infusion.”

And with that, he is gone, a curtain closing behind him. Amanda lies back on the pillows and closes her eyes. The pain in her back and pelvis is subdued, as if she had been given some kind of analgetic. There is a strange taste in her mouth… earthy and kind of minty. It’s not something she tasted before. Maybe Safik stirred one of his herbal remedies into her water. Sarek told her about T’Pau’s husband and his knowledge of the healing arts.

 _Sarek_.

The curtain rustles again, and Amanda opens her eyes. T’Pau has come. For once, she is not clad in her clan regalia, but she looks every bit as intimidating in her simple brown robe. T’Pau does not need clothing to impress.

“Lady T’Amanda,” she says.

“ _Pid-kom_.” Amanda tries to sit up, but T’Pau holds up a hand.

“Do not. Safik will scold us both if you exhaust yourself. Here.” She hands Amanda a steaming cup. “Drink this. It is an infusion of _waneti_ blossoms. It will build up your strength. Finish it all, or Safik will be greatly displeased.”

Amanda takes a sip. The drink tastes bitter, but not exactly unpleasant; kind of like strong green tea. “ _Pid-kom_ ,” Amanda says. “Thank you for your hospitality. I must have underestimated the ride when I left the village.”

T’Pau sits down cross-legged on a floor mat, her fluid movements belying her age. “Lady,” she says. “Let us not play games. I am a mother of nineteen, a grandmother of thirty-seven. I shall not trouble you with the number of my great-grandchildren and their children.”

“You have a large family.”

“I do. And I can see when a woman has recently given birth. You _rushan_ are not so different in that regard.”

Amanda swallows another mouthful of the bitter drink. “Maybe not.”

“Not at all. I know you have given birth to a son, and I know that he is Sarek’s. I know, and my husband Safik knows, for I have no secrets from him. No one else. And that is how it shall remain.”

“Sarek…” Amanda grips the cup very hard. “Where is he, T’Pau? I fell asleep, and when I woke up, he was gone. He took our son and left.”

T’Pau looks at her coolly. “He did what he did for you, lady. He left _g’teth_ branches in front of his own tent and gave himself to the justice of the clan. He never spoke your name when he was questioned. His wife has cast him out. My grandson has lost his honor, all so you may be spared the wrath of your people.”

Amanda feels very lightheaded all of a sudden, as if T’Pau had smacked her upside the head. “I have to talk to him. Please, T’Pau-”

“No. There will be no talking. A woman of our clan – a good woman who does not care about the talk of idle mouths – has come forward to claim Sarek as her husband. Had she not, my only choice would have been to send him away. Sarek will not talk to you, and he will not see you again. I forbid it. This marriage is his only chance, and you will not compromise it.”

“You can’t keep me away from my child!” She hears the panic in her voice and hates it. “Please, T’Pau. He’s my son, too. We called him Spock. I – I can’t…”

Suddenly, the old woman’s hand comes to rest on her arm. It is a very unusual gesture for a Vulcan; intimate, almost. Amanda senses something through the contact; a great mind brushing against hers, projecting some of its strength into her thoughts. Calming her.

“T’Amanda,” T’Pau says. “Do you not see how it is? Your son is safe here with his father. He will be part of this clan – not a stranger or an alien, for there are only three of us who know his secret, and we shall not speak of it. Spokh will never know. He is not _rushan_ – how could he go with you? This is the only home you can give him. Sarek understands that. He willingly gave up his honor for it. Now you must be strong – be a woman – and do your part. This is how it must be.”

T’Pau’s hand withdraws, leaving emptiness behind. _This is how it must be_. Amanda wants to argue, wants to find a thousand reasons why leaving her son and Sarek behind is out of the question. But all she can think of is, _but they belong with me_. And they really don’t. What she and Sarek had was always dangerous, always a risk, more so for him than for her. She could have lost her job; he could have lost his life. He did lose his wife and his honor, and what else is there for a Vulcan man? If she takes his child as well, she might as well chase him into the desert herself.

“You see now,” T’Pau says, almost kindly. It is not a question, and Amanda doesn’t take it as one. “Sarek did his duty to his son. You will do yours. You are strong, T’Amanda.”

But Amanda does not feel strong. She lies back down and lets the tears fall, not caring that it is _Pid-kom_ T’Pau sitting next to her.

“Yes,” T’Pau says. “Men and children bring pain into a woman’s life. It has always been so.”

Amanda cries.


	5. Intended

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're starting with the first chapter of the Spones part. Just as a quick reminder: The following part is set several months after the events of "Healer", when McCoy helped cure Spock's clan of the skin fever. Spock and Bones are a couple in this (if you haven't read "Healer", check it out to find how they got together :) ).  
> Now that I'm done shamelessly self-promoting, please enjoy the chapter :)! Big thanks go to MissManiac for a wonderful beta job.

“It better not be permanent, Spock, I swear.”

“It is not, Ma’khoi. This is the third time I told you.”

“I’m just saying. If it turns out I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with a face tat, I’ll wring your Vulcan neck.”

“An expression of speech,” Spock said. “It means that you will be very angry with me.”

“Good one,” Kirk called over from his work station. “Synonyms?”

“Blow a fuse, eat someone alive, bite someone’s head off, be up in arms-”

“If the two of you are quite done with the English lesson,” McCoy ground out. “I’d like Spock to concentrate while he’s carving runes into my forehead.”

“Runes?” Spock asked, testing out the unfamiliar word. “What is this runes?”

“They are letters,” Kirk explained. “An alphabet used by people who lived on Earth a long time ago.”

“Ah,” Spock said, no doubt filing away the information in that vast archive in his brain. “I do not write runes, Ma’khoi.”

“I _am not writing_ runes,” Kirk corrected. “Why the progressive form?”

“It is an activity I am performing now, not an habitual one,” Spock recited, and Kirk nodded.

“Very good.”

McCoy sighed, but if he was honest, he didn’t mind his current position all that much. The Vulcan was sitting cross-legged on the floor, McCoy’s head propped on a soft pillow in his lap. A pot of blue ink sat on the floor beside them. Spock was currently using a small _lara_ feather to draw the swirls and flourishes of Vulcan writing onto McCoy’s face, a feeling not unlike a very gentle massage. Spock took great care as he drew each individual letter and connected them with the traditional whorls, each of which had a meaning in and of itself. His fingertips brushed across McCoy’s cheeks once in a while, and the sensation of Spock’s cooler skin against his own brought a shiver (which McCoy took great care to hide from Kirk).

No, it wasn’t so bad, really. Which didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to complain, for form’s sake.

“What does it say again? You better not be putting dirty limericks on my face, Spock.”

“A short humorous poem consisting of five lines,” Kirk said before Spock could ask.

“I see. I am not writing a poem, Ma’khoi. The words are traditional. _Ma etek natyan teretuhr lau etek shetau weh-lo'uk do tum t'on.”_

“Bones?” Kirk asked, as McCoy had feared he would. Their friend and, as of five months, their boss, had gotten it into his head that Spock and McCoy should learn each other’s languages, appointing himself teacher. He had a point, of course – they could not rely on the translator forever, and there were… situations when miscommunications made for very awkward moments. It was just that Spock was so much better at English than McCoy was at Vulcan. Spock simply _knew_ a word after hearing it once; McCoy had a well-thumbed little notebook where he took down words and phrases phonetically (there was no way he could read the squiggly lines Vulcans called writing). Sometimes, he even remembered one of them.

“Come on, Bones,” Kirk said. “We practiced pronouns just yesterday, remember?”

McCoy sighed. “ _Ma etek_ … we? Our? Our differences? Something about differences and something else becoming something else. Come on, Jim. We practiced asking for _kreyla_ , not translating convoluted metaphysical sayings.”

“And you asked for _kreyla_ very well,” Spock said loyally. “The words mean ‘ _We have differences._ _May we, together, become greater than the sum of both of us_ ’. It is the prayer _t’hy’la_ bring before the spirits.”

“See? That’s Lesson 25 or something. I’m still on Lesson 4: The Doctor Eats Kreyla.”

Ignoring Kirk’s snort, McCoy reached up and placed his index and middle finger on Spock’s lips in a Vulcan kiss. There was a lot they didn’t say; they were still learning, and not only each other’s languages. But they had this, and it needed no translation.

“It is done,” Spock said eventually, placing the feather on the ground.

McCoy sat up (secretly regretting having to leave his comfortable perch behind) and held up a mirror to look at himself. He had expected to feel ridiculous; a very human man with traditional Vulcan face-writing he couldn’t even read. It was fine for Spock, whose high cheekbones and winged brows were complimented by the delicate pattern of his face tattoo. McCoy, on the other hand, expected to look like a tourist who had decided to try henna at the bazaar.

To his own surprise, he did not. Spock had not only drawn each letter with the care of a master artist painting on expensive china; he had also taken McCoy’s facial structure into account. The vertical line of whorls and curlicues fit perfectly, snaking from his forehead past his left eye and ending on his jawline. It looked… good.

“Huh,” he said. “Well then. How long does it stay on again?”

“It is left to fade naturally,” Spock replied, cleaning his quill with a small cloth. “It should be gone in about twelve days.”

“That’s alright then.” McCoy rested his palm briefly on Spock’s hand, conveying in his mind what he couldn’t say out loud. A slight softening around the Vulcan’s mouth told him that his message had been received.

“Don’t worry, Bones,” Kirk said. “You’ll look perfect on your wedding day.”

McCoy snorted as he got to his feet. “Shut up. It’s _not_ a wedding. Aren’t you supposed to be the cultural expert or something?”

Kirk merely grinned and turned back to his padds, which were filled with notes for his new book. The first one ( _Secrets of the Plains: An Insight into Vulcan’s Clan Cultures_ ) had been a hit in sociolinguistic circles and beyond, prompting Starfleet and the corporates to promise further funding, should Dr. Kirk produce another one within the year. So Kirk wrote, and his team did its best to keep everyday camp problems off his back. An ancient ceremony, of course, was more than enough reason for Kirk to leave his work station for a day or two. McCoy was certain the event would feature prominently in the new volume.

Not that he had been too enthusiastic when the Vulcans first came to them with their request. It sounded so… alien (and yes, that was par for the course on a planet 16 lightyears from Earth, but still). McCoy had not even known what _t’hy’la_ meant, and did not understand why a ceremony needed to be involved to acknowledge his and Spock’s relationship.

“ _It is what it is_ ,” he’d said to Kirk. “ _T’Pring threw him out, and now he’s with me. Can’t they just leave well enough alone?_ ”

Kirk had sighed, going into lecture mode – the pushing his glasses up his nose was a sure tell of that, McCoy had learned. “ _Look, it’s not that simple. Spock is still a member of his clan, and he is male. Vulcan men beyond a certain age aren’t allowed to stay unmarried; it’s to do with their biology. There is one exception, and that is if a man chooses to live with his t’hy’la, his male soulmate. Vulcans respect the relationship between t’hy’la, it’s almost sacred to them. But they need the ceremony to confirm it. Otherwise, any woman who finds herself in need of a husband could come and claim Spock as hers, regardless of what he might want. In their culture, a man who stays single for more than a rain season loses the right to say no.”_

_“Now that’s just great.”_

“ _That’s culture_ ,” Kirk had replied unperturbed. “ _Don’t look at me like that. It’s not that bad. You let them dress you up, you go before T’Pau and she blesses your bond before the spirits. Oh and there’s a feast afterwards. That’s all_.”

“ _You just want to go to the feast_ ,” McCoy had groused, but of course he had given in. Spock had never said a word, but McCoy could see that the ceremony was important to him, and not only because it would protect him from unwanted proposals of marriage. Making Spock happy was reason enough for McCoy to put up with all manners of weird Vulcan traditions.

So, _t’hy’la_ ceremony it was, with all the rituals it involved. One of them was for the bondmates to wear ancient sayings by Surak on their faces. Spock had received his from his father as was traditional, but since McCoy’s father wasn’t here (and wouldn’t have been able to paint Surak’s aphorisms on Leonard’s face if his life depended on it), Spock had volunteered.

“I shall retreat to my tent now,” Spock said, picking up the linen bag that contained his writing equipment. “My mother and my fathers wait for their end-meal, and my little brother must sleep soon.”

It was another tradition that preceded the ceremony; the Vulcan man’s future in-laws came to stay with him and assess his abilities as a host and housekeeper (“ _to make sure he’ll be a good helpmate to their own son_ ,” Kirk had explained). McCoy thought this to be a particularly evil tradition, but since he could hardly invite droves of McCoys to a pre-industrial planet to be waited on by his alien boyfriend, Sarek, Selken and T’Mar had stepped in and come to stay with their own son. “ _I believe you will prefer this to us living in your dwelling, Ma’khoi_ ,” Sarek had said with that characteristic twinkle in his eyes. And he was right, of course. McCoy thanked all the spirits there might be that as a _rushan_ , he was spared this particular aspect of Vulcan custom.

“What are you making?” Kirk asked.

“ _Barkaya marak_ with _birkeen_ bread and _kaasa_ cakes,” Spock said.

“Sounds great.”

Spock bowed. “Please, K’rk, join us in our meal. Our water is yours, our food is yours.”

“You’re shameless,” McCoy said to Kirk as he followed Spock to the exit. “He had to invite you after you praised his choices, and you knew it.”

Kirk shrugged, unrepentant. “He always makes too much as it is. Besides, Kirev likes it when I tell him bed-time stories.”

That was true. After he had overcome his initial fear of Kirk’s blond hair, Spock’s little brother had taken a liking to the _rushan_ ‘uncle’ and often followed Kirk around the camp like a tiny Vulcan shadow.

McCoy watched them go. The bondmate was not allowed in his intended’s tent prior to the ceremony; another tradition. The in-laws (or in this case, Spock’s family) guarded the entrance at all times to make sure everyone’s honor stayed intact.

The replicator it was, then. McCoy sighed. Like most Vulcan men, Spock was a good cook, and his meals certainly beat the synthesized food from the camp replicators’ programs.

He keyed in the code for ‘bangers and mash’ (the programmer must have been British) and waited for the machine to assemble his food from the protein mass that was the basis for all replicated meals. Kirk was lucky to dine on _barkaya marak_ tonight, the bastard.

As he took his meal out of the assigned slot, McCoy caught his reflection in the replicator’s polished surface. The Vulcan letters stood out prominently, telling the world that he was about to become bondmate to S’ch’n T’Gai Spock of the Clan of T’Pau.

Well, McCoy thought as he sat down to eat. Things could certainly be worse.

* * *

**Vulcan phrases (based on the Vulcan Language Dictionary at starbase-10.de/vld/):**

**kreyla:** a Vulcan breakfast food resembling biscuits; a flat bread-like food

**barkaya marak** : a Vulcan vegetable soup tasting like cream of spinach to Humans; served warm; it's made from a peanut-like legume native to Vulcan (source: ST Cooking Manual)

**birkeen:** a sweet Vulcan herb, often used in flavouring water

**kaasa:** blue-green fruit often made into juice


	6. Amanda

McCoy had found him sitting outside his tent early in the morning, when the stars were only just beginning to fade. Tiberius, I-Chaya’s nine-months-old cub, was snuggled against his side, pushing his furry head under Spock’s arm like a great white cat.

“I am… anxious,” Spock had said. It was the first time McCoy had heard him admit openly to any kind of feeling.

“Why?”

“I am not as learned and wise as you _rushan_. I have never travelled beyond the Fire Plains in my life. I fear I may be… a disappointment.”

“You’re plenty learned and wise,” McCoy had said. “And that’s not the point. Parents don’t love their children for being smart or whatnot. They just do.”

That had brought thoughts of Joanna, which always left him feeling empty and sad. But it was the right thing to say. Spock briefly put his face against Tiberius’ head and then got up, heading to his tent to prepare the morning meal for his family.

Now, waiting at the transporter platform in the camp’s central unit, McCoy felt a certain queasiness in the pit of his own stomach. They had known for weeks that today was the day; there had been messages back and forth, and schedules being shifted on both sides. Still, there was no real way to prepare for this. Spock was being pushed in at the deep end, and so, if McCoy was being honest, was the person about to arrive at their camp.

Spock’s family had come, clad in their very best robes. T’Mar’s hair, usually done in a no-nonsense braid held back by a simple band, was piled on her head in the elaborate crown that befitted a head of the family (McCoy wondered if she was making a statement, and decided against it. T’Mar had been genuinely pleased when she heard of the impending visit). Sarek, Spock and Selken had tied embroidered sashes around their waists and wore _lara_ feathers in their hair in celebration. Even little Kirev had been made to wear a new white tunic and an adorned headband, looking none too happy about it. Yes, they were ready to honor and welcome their guest.

McCoy only hoped that she was ready, as well.

The comm whistled, and Kirk went over to take the call.

“USS _Endeavor_ to Base Camp _Enterprise_ ,” a male voice said from the speaker. None of the Vulcans startled, being used by now to disembodied voices coming from the _rushan’s_ devices. “One to beam down. Supplies will follow shortly after.”

“Acknowledged,” Kirk said. “Thank you, _Endeavour_. We’re ready.”

“Acknowledged. Please clear the platform immediately after arrival. _Endeavour_ out.”

The transporter began to hum, and McCoy took his usual moment of rumination on how much he hated the damned thing. It just wasn’t natural, tearing someone’s molecules apart and _turning them into code_ , of all things. He couldn’t understand how Spock, a man born and raised in a culture that hadn’t yet moved past bronze tools, could simply accept the idea. “ _It is a very efficient way of travelling_ ,” he had said. “ _It’s a damn menace_ ,” McCoy had replied.

A figure materialized on the platform. She wasn’t as tall as he had expected, perhaps 1.60 meters. Her brown hair was done in a short, spiky cut, and she was dressed in the loose garb preferred by civilian space travelers. McCoy knew that she was in her mid-fifties, but she looked younger to him; maybe because she was so obviously nervous.

“Dr. Grayson,” Kirk said. “Welcome.”

He shook her hand, then took her travelling case. “Please, come with me. Meet the team.”

Kirk seemed to handle the tense situation effortlessly, a trait that had materialized soon after he had taken command of the camp.

Amanda Grayson seemed grateful for his initiative. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes on the Vulcans who stood silently in the background. “I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. Kirk.”

“It’s Jim,” he said. “We’re not that formal out here.”

She smiled a little. “Amanda, then. And you must be…”

“Leonard McCoy. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

They shook hands. She had a firm grip and calloused hands; another thing McCoy had not expected. She also had Spock’s eyes, which was slightly unsettling.

“And this is Spock,” Kirk said lightly, as if he wasn’t introducing mother to son in an incredibly awkward situation. McCoy’s respect for him went up another notch. “He has been working at the camp as our cultural advisor and guide.”

Spock bowed. McCoy could see the nervous tension in his shoulders, but his face was a blank slate, as was proper. “Live long and prosper, my lady.”

“Thank you,” Amanda said softly. “It’s… I’m sorry. I’ve waited so long to meet you, and now I don’t know what to say.”

“’Peace and long life’ is the traditional response,” T’Mar said. She was watching the other woman carefully, assessing her. “I am T’Mar, wife to Sarek and Selken, mother to Kirev and Spokh. I welcome you as a guest to our lands.”

McCoy revised his earlier opinion; perhaps T’Mar _was_ making a statement. Amanda seemed to be thinking along the same lines. She straightened her shoulders.

“I thank you for your hospitality, lady,” she said in perfect Vulcan (McCoy had been careful to activate the translator for this encounter). “I greet Sarek and Selken, husbands to Lady T’Mar, and her sons Spokh and Kirev. I am honored to be your guest.”

T’Mar studied her for a long moment, then raised her hand in the traditional greeting. “We hear your words and are pleased to share our water and our tents with you. May your visit be blessed.”

Kirev had been staring at Amanda with big eyes, and McCoy could almost see the wheels turning behind his forehead. His parents had explained to him about the guest, but it was obvious that to his four-year-old mind, the _rushan_ lady didn’t really fit into any familiar category.

He tugged at Spock’s sleeve. “Spokh,” he whispered, in a voice heard clearly by all adults in the room. “Is she your _rushan_ mother? She has strange hair.”

Amanda laughed, and Spock picked Kirev up so that he could take a closer look. “Yes, little brother. She is my _rushan_ mother, just as T’Mar is my Vulcan mother. Her hair is short, but it is not strange to her. She probably finds your hair to be unusual because it is so long.”

“My hair is beautiful,” Kirev said decidedly, and Amanda laughed again.

“So it is,” she smiled. “You have very beautiful hair.”

It was easier after that. Spock and his fathers had prepared a meal, spread out on a large serving slab in front of Spock’s tent as was Vulcan custom. Everyone sat on the mats laid out for the guests, and conversation was not as forced as it might have been. Amanda asked Spock about his work at the camp, and seemed genuinely fascinated when he told her about the trips he had undertaken with Kirk to gather language samples from the Forest Clan and other groups in the area. Watching Spock’s body language, McCoy saw that the Vulcan was gradually beginning to relax, allowing himself to accept her interest without embarrassment. Spock had come a long way in many respects, but this was perhaps the most poignant – he no longer felt shame at his accomplishments. At some point, he even switched to English in his conversation with Amanda, and did not hide his face when she complimented him.

“K’rk is a very good teacher,” was all he said.

“My son knew not a word of the _rushan_ language when he came to live with Ma’khoi,” Sarek said proudly. “He has become a learned man.”

At that, Spock finally blushed a little. “Father…”

“It is true,” Sarek insisted. For the first time since they had started their meal, he looked straight at Amanda, his head high as he spoke. “Spokh has grown up to be a strong and handsome man who will soon bond with his _t’hy’la_. He speaks the _rushan_ language better than any Vulcan, he helps the healer and is an accomplished cook and desert walker. He owns three sehlats, not just one, more than any man in our clan. He has done well.”

His statement was followed by silence. Even Kirev looked up from his food at the adults, sensing the tension. T’Mar sat very still, her face unreadable.

It was Amanda who finally spoke. “Yes,” she said softly. “I can see that. You have done well by him, Sarek.”

She put down her drinking cup. “Excuse me, please. A moment.”

McCoy watched as she hurried back to the camp, torn between pity and resignation. Of course it wasn’t that easy; nothing concerning family ever was.

“Go after her,” T’Mar said. She was looking at Spock. “Go after her, my son. And speak kindly.”

Spock hesitated. “I… I do not have the words, mother.”

“You will,” T’Mar said. “Speak as yourself. It will be enough.”

Spock got up. McCoy met his eyes and nodded, trying to convey encouragement. He didn’t envy Spock the conversation that was to follow.

Spock rested his hand on McCoy’s shoulder – a fleeting touch, just his fingertips brushing against the fabric of McCoy’s shirt. McCoy knew that this was as far as he would go in front of his family. Like all of his clan, Spock had opinions on what a decent Vulcan man did and did not do.

McCoy watched him go after Amanda, thinking of Joanna. She had been on his mind a lot these days, and you didn’t have to be Freud to see the connection. Maybe he hadn’t been as absent as Amanda had been in Spock’s life, but fact was that he had last seen her – really seen her - almost a year ago. Vidcomms just weren’t the same.

“I did not mean to cause offense,” Sarek said. “This one spoke hastily.”

“This one did,” T’Mar said dryly. “ _Kaiidth_ , Sarek. Perhaps she needed to hear it. And perhaps you needed to say it. Pass me the _kaasa_ juice, please.”

They finished the meal without talking much, interrupted only when Tiberius came and begged his master for scraps, which he got (Kirk was hopelessly spoiling that sehlat). Amanda and Spock did not return.

When McCoy walked back to the lab to check on some tests, he saw them sitting together in the shadow of a _shaforr_ tree. Amanda had her hand on Spock’s shoulder, and while he wasn’t quite leaning into the touch, he didn’t seem to resent it, either.

McCoy walked on, reluctant to disturb them, but couldn’t help catching some of Spock’s words.

“He is a good man, my lady. Do not worry.”

Well, Sarek was, McCoy thought. Kirk was too, for that matter. Whoever Spock was talking about, he had good judgment and would convince his mother that he was alright, really. McCoy had no doubt about that.


	7. Family

“I have a sister,” Spock said. He had been sitting quietly, working on a piece of _shaforr_ wood he was carving into a bowl. He hadn’t spoken in over an hour, and at first, McCoy wasn’t sure he had heard him correctly.

“A sister?”

“Yes,” Spock said. “A sister on the _rushan_ world. Amanda has a husband and a daughter. She is seventeen of your years old.”

“Oh.” McCoy wasn’t sure what to say. Of course Amanda had a life back on Earth; she was a renowned sociolinguist and had published several books. He had never really thought about her private life, although theoretically, he had assumed she had one.

Still… a sister. McCoy couldn’t imagine how it must feel, learning that you had family on another world… of another species.

“What’s her name?” he asked, mostly just to say something.

“Anna Grayson,” Spock replied, his accent giving the name a foreign coloration. “She wishes to become a doctor, like you.”

McCoy placed his padd on the work table and turned on his chair so that he was facing Spock. “That’s gotta be hard.”

“It is,” Spock said. “You told me that a doctor must study many years.”

McCoy smiled. Even when they spoke the same language, Spock and he managed to get their wires crossed. “Yeah, but that’s not what I meant. I was talking about the fact that you have a sister you never met.”

_And a mother who is a stranger to you_ , he didn’t say.

“It is… _ertau’la_ ,” Spock said. “I do not know the word. It does not feel right?”

“It’s unsettling,” McCoy nodded. “Yeah, I can see that.” He took a deep breath. “I… I often feel sad when I think of my little girl back on Earth. Being away from family is hard.”

“It is different,” Spock said. “You miss your daughter in your _katra_ , your soul. She is part of you. I do not feel the same pain. There is no place in my _katra_ where my sister should be.” He stared down at the half-finished bowl in his hands. “It is not right that I have family I do not know. Family is all there is. _Maat-fam, ha’kiv-fam_. ‘Without a clan, no life’.”

McCoy left his chair and knelt down on the floor next to the Vulcan. Spock still wouldn’t look up. Gently, McCoy took the bowl and carving knife from his hands and set them on the floor, then held out his middle and index fingers.

“Spock, look at me.”

Spock did. McCoy placed his fingers on the Vulcan’s tattooed cheek. “You’re my family. My _t’haila_ , even if I’ll never be able to pronounce the damn word right. That’s what I think of when everything seems messed up and crazy. Life’s not perfect, and there won’t be a day when I don’t miss my little girl. But I’m here, and you’re here, and that’s something, right? That’s something we’ve got.”

Spock touched McCoy’s fingers with his own. “You are wise, Ma’khoi. I am honored to become your bondmate.”

“I’m not wise, Spock. Just a cranky old doctor who muddles through somehow.” McCoy knew that Spock did not particularly enjoy being hugged, but right now, the Vulcan would just have to deal. He didn’t often feel sentimental, but when he did, the hobgoblin better get used to some good old-fashioned hugging. There were times when finger-kissing just wasn’t enough.

Spock allowed himself to be held, and even placed his own hands carefully on McCoy’s waist. “I did not mean to upset you, Ma’khoi. I apologize.”

“You didn’t,” McCoy muttered into the long black hair that always carried a faint scent of lemon, despite the fact that not a single citrus plant had ever grown on Vulcan. “I’m just having feelings. We humans do sometimes.”

“Have feelings, not having feelings. It is habitual for you, is it not?”

And how could two people so different ever make it work? McCoy did not know, and knew at the same time that he had no other choice.

Because he was a fool like that.

* * *

Amanda, it turned out, had no intention of spending her visit as a mere guest. She spent hours with Kirk in his office, discussing his latest findings and comparing notes on Vulcan culture. She went into the plains with Spock and helped him gather plant samples for the biology labs. She brushed I-Chaya from head to toe (much to the old sehlat’s enjoyment) and took the resulting pile of wool to Selken, who was known for his clothmaking abilities. And when a group of Vulcans came to see the _rushan_ healer, she volunteered as a triage nurse.

It had begun after they had distributed the serum to T’Pau’s Clan and other affected groups in the area. Word had spread of the healer who had cured the deadly fever, and ill Vulcans from far-away clans undertook the long and dangerous journey to the _rushan_ camp, hoping to find help. Kirk had been in more than a dozen meetings with Starfleet Command about it, and the conclusion was always the same (though never spoken out loud) – we need the dilithium, so help them. Not that McCoy cared one way or another. He’d taken an oath, and wouldn’t turn away a patient no matter what Starfleet and the corporates had to say about it.

He had met people from the Forest Clan, quiet folks who communicated primarily through telepathy. They had been visited by a group from the _Suk-tauk_ Clan, who lived in a huge cave system in the L-langon Mountains, and once a family from the Clan of T’Varen had spent a week, after having travelled almost a hundred kilometers all the way from the Lesser Sea. They came bearing dozens of sun crystals and refused to accept McCoy’s assurances that no compensation was required. Well, Vulcans were many things, but they weren’t stupid.

McCoy had treated infections, removed tumors and operated on several children suffering from fused nictitating membranes, the Vulcan version of cataracts. (One of the _Suk-tauk_ Clan Elders had been so grateful that she offered to take McCoy as her first husband, and only Kirk’s best diplomatic efforts convinced her that the _rushan_ healer was better off staying with his own kind). Spock was an indispensable help in all of this, calming frightened children, distributing medicine and even performing simple procedures like derm-regeneration on his own. The Vulcans had begun to call him _hassu gol’nevsu_ – helper to the healer – and McCoy couldn’t argue with that. Spock had basically started his own Vulcan version of a medical internship.

Amanda turned out to be as adept as her son at dealing with sick people. It was a group from T’Pau’s Clan today; a woman who had brought her elderly father to be treated for a tooth ache, and a little girl who had broken her ankle falling off a sehlat. The girl’s father apologized several times for bothering McCoy about a ‘triviality’.

“It’s fine,” he told the father, smiling at the girl. “You’ll need both your feet if you want to ride again, don’t you?”

“Thank you, _rushan_ ,” she said in heavily accented English, and her father patted her proudly.

“She has been practicing all the way here.”

A voice from outside interrupted them. McCoy treated patients inside one of the air-conditioned units, using the clear space in front of it as a ‘waiting room’ for his Vulcan visitors. Spock had set up a sunshade and spread mats on the sand for the sick to lie on, providing water and cold fruit while they waited. So far, everyone had been more than grateful (some even refused the water, worried about depleting the _rushan’s_ reserves).

The voice outside, however, sounded anything but gracious. “How long do these _rushan_ intend to make me wait? Unlike some of these young people, I have work waiting for me at home.”

“Father!” McCoy recognized the voice of T’Vel, a younger clanswoman. “Lower your voice, and do not be ungrateful. The healer will help you.”

“I did not want to come here and I do not need his help,” the old man fumed. “There is nothing wrong with me that one of my co-husband’s stinking herbal infusions will not cure! I do not want that _rushan_ jinxing me with his evil spells!”

“What seems to be the trouble?” Amanda’s calm voice joined the conversation.

T’Vel spoke loudly, drowning out the old man’s muttering. “My father has been suffering from an angry tooth for many days. He cannot sleep, and neither can his family.”

Her dry undertone did not escape the old Vulcan. “ _Ay’ka_ , as if they care! Only this morning, that fool Murov lay in bed and slept when he should have been up preparing my morning meal! And that wife of mine can think of nothing better than to send me to the _rushan_ for help! I do not need help, and certainly not theirs!”

“Oh brother,” McCoy muttered under his breath. He had met patients like this, and they were hell to deal with, no matter if their ears were round or pointy.

“It is Lesek.” Sahrk, the girl’s father, looked embarrassed. “He is… difficult. Please, Healer, do not judge our clan by his lack of manners.”

“Don’t worry about it.” McCoy smiled at his young patient. “Careful on those sehlats, all right?”

They left, and Amanda stuck her head in. “You ready for an infected tooth?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” McCoy said. “Send him in.”

Lesek entered the room reluctantly, pulling his thick woolen cloak around his thin form. His dark eyes moved suspiciously over the biobed and various medical tools before focusing on McCoy. A thin gray braid dangled from his shoulder. McCoy noticed that the old Vulcan was missing his left ear; only a greenish stump remained.

“Hello, Lesek,” he said, putting on his best professional tone. “I’m McCoy. I hear your tooth has been giving you trouble.”

Lesek eyed him, his mouth tight. “I know who you are, _rushan_. You are to become bondmate to Sarek’s son, the _mesh’ka_ child.”

McCoy suppressed a surge of anger. _It’s only a grumpy old man who’s in pain._ “I don’t know about the _mesh’ka_ part, but you’re right, I’m Spock’s bondmate. Now why don’t you sit down over here and we’ll take a look at your tooth.”

Lesek glared as he lowered himself into the examination chair. “It is cold in here, _rushan._ Can’t you light a fire?”

“Computer, turn up the temperature by five degrees.”

Lesek snorted. “You believe you impress me with your spells and tricks. It is evil magic, is what it is.”

McCoy had a sudden mental image of Lesek in cowboy boots and a farmer’s coverall, chasing a bunch of kids off his lawn. “Okay then, sir. Why don’t you let me have a look at your tooth.”

The old man was clutching the chair’s arms very hard. “So you can poke me with your sorcerer’s tools? I think not. You may have stolen T’Pring’s husband and fooled everyone in our clan, but not me.”

McCoy could see that Lesek was scared, and knew the best thing was to play along and distract him. “Stolen T’Pring’s husband? I seem to remember that she cast him out.”

Lesek let out a harsh laugh. “Yes, she did, and no wonder! Stonn would drive anyone to madness with his jealousy. And she is a fool, too, for taking that cave-crawler from the _Suk-tauk_ Clan as a second husband! Handsome he may be, but Stonn will soon put an end to that.” He sniggered. “Only yesterday, he chased that young fool half-naked out of T’Pring’s tent and made him sleep outside with the sehlats. Yellow and green all over his back, he was, his nose all bloody. Heard him snivel out there in the sand, I did. Young idiot.”

This time, McCoy couldn’t quite keep his anger in check. Spock had suffered a similar fate at Stonn’s hands, and Lesek was too obviously pleased by what he had witnessed.

“Head back,” he commanded, gripping the old man’s chin none too gently. “Open your mouth.”

“T’Pring should just whip the two of them until they cannot stand,” Lesek continued. “That’s what they did in my day-”

“Open your mouth,” McCoy ordered. His patience was stretching dangerously thin. “I can’t treat you if you keep talking.”

Finally, Lesek did as he was told.

“Yes, that tooth is infected,” McCoy said, prodding it carefully with a sickle probe. “It’ll need to come out.”

“No,” Lesek protested, his voice muffled. “I ‘oo ‘ot want-”

“Frankly, sir, I don’t care,” McCoy cut across him. “Your daughter took the time to bring you here, and I’m sure you’ve been driving everyone crazy with your whining and bellyachin’. Now do you want to get rid of the thing, or do you want me to tell your clan that you were too much of a coward to undergo treatment?”

It wasn’t exactly what Starfleet Medical would call good bedside manners, but it seemed to hit the right note with Lesek, whose sallow cheeks turned a faint green.

“Treat me, _rushan_ ,” he barked. “I am no coward.”

McCoy began to ready the analgetic hypospray, indulging in a secret fantasy of pulling Lesek’s tooth without the aid of painkillers. The old Vulcan’s words had hit a little too close to home. McCoy thought of the poor young man in T’Pring’s tent, at the mercy of Stonn’s cruelty and T’Pring’s indifference just as Spock had been. Sometimes, Spock still flinched when someone moved quickly around him.

McCoy applied the hypo and began the process of extraction, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand. All he really wanted to do was find Spock and hug the life out of him (which the hobgoblin probably wouldn’t appreciate, touch-shy creature that he was, but still).

The tooth came out quite easily. It had been hanging on by mere threads, its roots black and festered. Some of the adjacent teeth were beginning to show signs of decay, as well, and McCoy cleaned them methodically, administering an antibiotic spray to fight the infection.

“You need to improve your dental hygiene,” he said to Lesek when they were done. Most Vulcans, Spock included, were very exacting about their personal hygiene and chewed on cleansing _cir-cen_ roots after every meal. Lesek had been somewhat negligent in that regard.

“Do not tell me what to do,” Lesek muttered, spat a mouthful of blood on the floor and limped out of the room.

McCoy watched him go, leaning against the sink with a sigh.

“What a ray of sunshine.” Amanda had come in. Seeing the green puddle on the floor, she grabbed a sterile wipe from the counter and began to clean it up.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” she said. “Starfleet doesn’t realize how much you’re helping these people.”

“I’m just doing my job.” McCoy pulled off his surgical gloves and threw them into the recycler. “Some days are better than others.”

“I can believe that.” She smiled. “Spock told me he has been helping you out.”

“He’s been doing more than that. Some days I don’t know how I’d keep this place running without him.”

“He holds you in high regard.” Her eyes were on him, so unsettlingly like Spock’s. “He says you are his _t’hy’la_.”

“Yes,” McCoy said. “Ma’am, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. Spock’s younger and his culture’s less advanced, but he knows what he wants. I’d never do anything to pressure him or hurt him.”

Amanda smiled. “I don’t doubt it. And I’m not here to give you the shovel talk. If anyone had a right to do that, it would be Sarek, and he approves whole-heartedly of Spock’s choice. For what it’s worth, so do I. You’re a good man, Leonard, and Spock knows it.”

She leaned against the sink next to him. “Your ceremony’s coming up in three days, isn’t it.”

“Don’t remind me.” McCoy wiped a hand over his face. “Jim’s been drilling me like a sergeant, but I can’t for the life of me remember all of the ceremonial words. T’Pau’s gonna kill me.”

She grinned. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Leonard… Spock has asked me to stand with his family at the ceremony. It means a lot to me, but I won’t do it unless you agree. I know I… haven’t been there for Spock the way I should’ve been.”

“Seems to me you didn’t have much of a choice,” McCoy said. “I’d be happy for you to stand with Spock. It means a lot to him, too.”

She nodded, and he knew that no more needed to be said. It was something Spock shared with his mother; they were people you could be silent with.

Three days, McCoy thought. Strange that the idea didn’t even scare him.


	8. Ceremony

The ceremonial grounds of T’Pau’s Clan were situated high up in the mountains. The place reminded McCoy of Stonehenge – a stretch of sand encircled by giant slabs of red rock. Spirits had carried them there, or so the legend went. Certainly it seemed impossible for Spock’s ancestors to have set them up. The place could be reached only by crossing a rock bridge after climbing a steep winding path up the mountain. Vulcans did not seem to believe in handrails, and so the bridge remained unsecured, arching over an abyss of jagged rocks and thorny shrubs.

The ceremony was held in the late evening, as was tradition. During the day, _La’shark_ burned down on the mountain tops, heating the rocks until they became blistering to the touch. At nightfall, a strong desert breeze rose, cooling the sands and bringing relief to every living thing on the plains. In Vulcan culture, it was the time when the veil between the world and the realm of spirits was lifted; a time for sacred rituals and prayers.

Torches had been lit all along the path. They flickered wildly, and McCoy understood why the Vulcans believed spirits to roam at this hour. The wind sang between the mountains as the quiver of flame and shadow evoked ghostly figures that seemed to glide alongside the procession. Bells jingled, shook by the two young clanswomen who had been appointed guards to the ceremonial party. Wedding bells, Kirk had called them, but the joke fell flat. In these otherworldly surroundings, their sound was like nothing McCoy or any human had heard before.

T’Pau led the procession, tall and forbidding in her heavy robes and elaborate head dress. The Clan Elders followed, similarly attired and carrying their lirpas on their shoulders. After them came the guardswomen, followed by the intended _t’hy’la_ and their families. Or family, in this case. T’Mar had offered to stand in for McCoy’s mother, and he had accepted gratefully. His own folks back home were good people, but he could not imagine them here, clad in Vulcan robes and climbing a mountain in the desert to witness an alien bonding rite.

When T’Mar was done preparing him for the ceremony, he had looked at himself in the mirror and seen a stranger. The face-writing he had become used to, but not the rest of it. The heavy green robe, its hem and sleeves embroidered with ancient symbols. The sash T’Mar had tied around his waist. The decorated head-band that fit perfectly with Spock’s smooth black hair, but looked strange on his own head. McCoy did not feel right, but he forgot about it once he saw Spock. He looked intimidating, alien in the ceremonial attire… and (McCoy admitted this only in the secrecy of his own thoughts) quite sexy.

Sarek had offered him I-Chaya as a ride up the mountain, but McCoy had declined. He knew that the climb was an important part of the ceremony, symbolizing the journey _t’hy’la_ took together. And so he walked, stepping over rocks and dry roots, the hem of his robe dragging through the red sand. At least Kirk fared no better; as ‘best man’ (or whatever the Vulcan equivalent was), he wore a robe just as heavy and walked right behind McCoy.

T’Pring was with the party, too. Much as McCoy disliked it, she was a Clan Elder and as such an indispensable witness to the ceremony. She had not looked at Spock once, her face rigid and expressionless as she joined the ranks behind the _pid-kom_.

“ _Eh Sreman, eifa sarlah-ka t’hy’la kudau’a_ ,“ T’Pau intoned the traditional prayer to the spirits. “ _Eh Gratan, eifa sarlah-ka t’hy’la kudau’a. Eh Giidas, eifa sarlah-ka t’hy’la kudau’a._ ”

They were getting closer to the Place of Rites. The rock bridge stretched before them, and McCoy firmly squashed the image of crumbling red stones and bodies broken on the rocks a hundred meters below. Vulcans had crossed this structure for thousands of years, according to Spock. It was going to remain solid for one human doctor, as well.

“ _Eh Sreman, yut shi’ho-rah-tor tan-tor’a,_ ” T’Pau chanted, and the party proceeded onto the bridge. Spock seemed to sense McCoy’s nervousness. The movement concealed under the large sleeves of their robes, he brushed his fingers across McCoy’s.

_It will be well._

Slightly calmer now, McCoy kept his eyes firmly on the circle of stones. A huge brazier filled with glowing embers stood in its middle, and above it, a bronze gong hung on a chain, smooth with age and wear.

The ceremonial party slowly assembled around the brazier, keeping a respectful distance to the sacred objects. T’Pau stepped forward and lifted a mallet that hung next to the gong. She struck it four times. The metal sang and vibrated, a sound McCoy felt in the core of his bones. The air smelled of burning coals and sand.

“Spirits,” T’Pau began. “Old ones of the Mountains. We come here today to seek your blessing.”

“We seek your blessing,” T’Les and T’Pring, the two Clan Elders, echoed. They laid down their lirpas in the sand. “See our weapons rest. We seek peace today.”

“Spokh,” T’Pau called. “Attend.”

Spock straightened his shoulders and walked towards T’Pau. This was the part McCoy feared, and yet it looked so innocuous. Spock knelt down in front of the Clan Eldest, Sarek, T’Mar and Amanda by his side. Sarek took a handful of dry herbs from the folds of his robes and threw them into the brazier. Sparks flew, and a smell like incense filled the air.

“These herbs, my blessing,” he said.

T’Mar and Amanda both drew knives from their belts and touched Spock’s head with the blades.

“This knife, my assent,” they said in unison.

“Spokh,” T’Pau said. “ _Nahp, hif-bi tu throks_.”

The translator did not pick up the words, but McCoy knew what they meant. _Give me your thoughts_ , spoken in an ancient tongue that had long fallen out of usage. Kirk had explained that the language was only used in ceremonies now, much like Latin back on Earth.

_Give me your thoughts_. He didn’t like it, not at all. And it didn’t matter that T’Pau’s mind-touch would be a superficial one, designed only to ensure that he was here of his own free will and with good intentions. Spock in his head was one thing. McCoy didn’t want anyone else rummaging around in there, _pid-kom_ or no.

T’Pau placed her hand on Spock’s face. Both of them closed their eyes, remaining motionless for a moment.

“Hear me, spirits,” T’Pau said finally, opening her eyes again. “This man wishes to join his _katra_ with his _t’hy’la_ in the sacred bond. His thoughts are pure.”

The ceremonial party uttered a long, ululating cry at her announcement, which echoed strangely in the vast space. Sarek tossed a handful of coals into the fire, and T’Mar raised her knife, piercing the skin of her palm. After a second of hesitation, Amanda followed suit.

“These coals, my joy,” Sarek said.

“This blood, my permit.”

Red and green dripped onto Spock’s outstretched hands. When T’Mar and Amanda withdrew, he got to his feet and walked over to the gong. Turning to look at McCoy, he struck it once, and the deep, resonating sound rose once more.

“ _T’hy’la_ ,” he said. “Before this clan and the spirits, I call you to become my bondmate.”

There was some kind of commotion behind McCoy, but he didn’t turn around. His eyes were fixed on Spock, and he tried very hard not to think of anything else. He was going to get through this. It was just one brief touch.

“I attend,” he said, grateful now that he and Jim had rehearsed this so thoroughly. At least he had remembered the words.

He knelt in the sand before T’Pau. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and the linen robe felt heavier than ever. _Just one brief touch._

Sarek should have burned his second handful of herbs now, but he did not. He was frowning at something behind McCoy’s back. The commotion had become louder. People were hissing angrily, as if shushing someone.

“I apologize,” a man’s voice said. He sounded out of breath and panicked. “I apologize. I must see the _pid-kom_.”

McCoy turned and saw Murov, T’Pau’s youngest husband. His face was pale and his hands shook as he knelt in the sand before his wife. There was a green smear on the front of his tunic.

“What is it, husband?” T’Pau asked. “Why do you disturb the ceremony?”

“I beg forgiveness, _pid-kom_ ,” Murov said. “I – I must ask the _rushan_ healer to come, immediately. Or he will die.”

T’Pau frowned. “Who will die? Speak, Murov!”

“Svai, my lady. Lady T’Pring’s younger husband, he of the _Suk-tauk_ Clan. He lies bleeding from Stonn’s knife. We beg the healer to come help him.”

T’Pring drew in an audible breath. McCoy jumped to his feet, inwardly cursing the unwieldy garment as he dug in its folds for his communicator.

“McCoy to Base Camp.”

“Base Camp, Miyashiro speaking. Doctor, I thought you were at the ceremony.”

“Listen, Shou, there’s an emergency. I need you to go to the transporter room, get my signal and beam me to the Vulcan settlement, quick. My emergency kit, too. And stand by, I might need a transport directly to the operating unit.”

Miyashiro asked no questions, and McCoy was once more grateful for Starfleet efficiency. "Stand by for transport, doctor.”

“I will accompany him,” Spock said before the tech could sign off. “Ready your device for two.”

“Will do, Spock. Miyashiro out.”

Spock held McCoy’s eyes. “You may need my help, Ma’khoi.”

McCoy nodded. The tingle of the transporter beam began to envelop him, and the last thing he saw was T’Pau standing by the coal brazier, her face a rigid mask of anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to hear what you think!


	9. Healing

The entrance to T’Pring’s tent was open. Several clanspeople stood gathered there, trying to catch a glance of what was going on inside.

“Move!” McCoy pushed them aside, shouldering his way through the crowd until he had reached the tent flap. “Close that!” he barked over his shoulder at Spock. Lookie-loos were universal, and not helpful no matter what planet they were born on.

Spock went to the door while McCoy knelt down next to the injured man. Svai lay on a mat in the middle of the tent’s main room, a young man with the characteristic light skin and reddish-blonde hair that was singular to the _Suk-tauk_. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing coming in harsh pants. Safik, T’Pau’s first husband, knelt next to him, holding a piece of linen to Svai’s side. Green blood had soaked the young man’s ripped tunic and was spreading onto the floor.

“What happened?”

“Stonn lost control,” Safik said. “He attacked Svai with a knife. It seems the blade went into his heart.”

_Goddammit._

“Hold that linen in place,” McCoy advised the Vulcan healer, tricorder in hand. “Press as hard as you can, he can’t lose any more blood. I’ll give him a hypo to stabilize him for transport.”

“Stonn is gone,” Spock said, coming back from the tent entrance. “Lesek saw him run off into the plains.”

“Good.” McCoy pressed the hypo against Svai’s neck. “We won’t have to worry about him going on a rampage then. Spock, I’ll need you to do exactly as I say.”

“I will, Ma’khoi.”

“When I tell you to, you take the linen from Safik and press as hard as you can. I’ll have them beam the three of us to the operating unit.”

“I understand.”

Both Vulcans stayed remarkably calm, and McCoy was grateful for it as he took out his communicator.

“Now,” he told Spock, and activated the comm channel. “Shou, tell Lachner to prep for surgery. Three to beam out.”

* * *

_Vulcans are like cats. They have nine lives._

McCoy’s predecessor, Joseph M’Benga, had coined the phrase, and it had become an inside joke with the medical team at base camp.

Vulcans could spend seven days in the desert without food or water. They could survive blood loss which would kill a human in seconds, and claw their way back to health after being ripped open by a _le-matya_. They even had evolved a reflex very similar to a cat falling from a great height; one of Kirev’s friends had fallen nine meters into a canyon and limped away with no more than a sprained ankle.

Yet there were things they couldn’t survive, and Svai came close – very close. He crashed several times on the operating table, and McCoy thanked the desert gods that by lucky coincidence, Svai and Selken shared a blood type. Sarek’s co-husband had been generous with his donations, trying to repay McCoy for saving his son. They had used all but one of the bags in storage when the bleeding finally stopped.

It took two hours to stabilize Svai, and four more to contain the damage done to the young man’s body. Svai’s injuries told a story of their own. The young Vulcan had shallow cuts on his palms and forearms, as if he had attempted to block the knife by raising his hands. McCoy was fairly certain that Stonn had not been aiming for the heart. Vulcans, both male and female, were trained in combat and knew how to kill an enemy. No… Svai’s wounds and bruises spoke of the attacker’s blind fury. Fortunately, the blade had glanced off a rib and injured only the second right atrium, rather than cutting through the Vulcan version of the aorta. If it had, not even ‘ _rushan_ magic’ could have saved that boy.

McCoy was sitting in his little office in Unit B, turning a glass of bourbon in his hands. So far, he hadn’t touched it. From time to time, he checked the bio indicator on his monitor, making sure the young man in the IC unit next door remained stable. Svai’s neural patterns showed a decrease in cortical activity, but that was as it should be. In the hours to come, Svai’s brain would enter a state of deep rest and channel all the body’s energy into the process of proliferation. This ‘healing trance’, as the Vulcans called it, was one of the best natural remedies McCoy had ever seen.

It was not a magical cure, however. It would be a long time until Svai recovered.

The door opened, and McCoy raised his head. Kirk and Spock had come, the latter still in his green ceremonial robe. It looked out of place in the sterile medical surroundings.

“How is he?” Kirk asked with a look at the ICU.

“Stable,” McCoy said. “Sleeping.”

Kirk sat down heavily on a chair by McCoy’s desk. “Bones, it’s almost morning. Sun’s about to rise. You should go to bed.”

He was right; McCoy couldn’t remember when he had last been so tired. Maybe during his residency.

“I’m fine. I want to make sure he transitions into this healing trance okay.”

“Ma’khoi,” Spock said. “Your assistant can watch over Svai as he heals. So can I. And your communication device will alert you if something changes, will it not?”

Sometimes, McCoy wished Spock didn’t have quite such an instinctive understanding of computers.

“See?” Kirk smiled, a far cry from his usual sunny grin. He had been up all night himself. “Spock says it too. If you won’t listen to me, then listen to your hubby.”

McCoy was too depleted to think of any snarky response. “Guess I’d better lie down for a few hours.”

He got to his feet, leaving the bourbon on his desk. It was probably better if he left it alone, anyway. “What about everyone else?”

“Stonn’s come back,” Kirk said. “He’s in shock, didn’t talk much. He did say he was overcome by an evil spirit. T’Pau ordered him to be shut up in T’Pring’s tent and put under guard.”

McCoy wasn’t sure he liked the idea of a potentially violent man held only by thin tent walls. “And T’Pring?”

“She and T’Per are staying in the _pid-kom_ ’s tent,” Spock said. “T’Per was present during the attack and is very frightened. Safik has given her sleep berries.”

“She wasn’t hurt, was she?”

“No,” Spock said. “Stonn would never injure his child.”

McCoy was surprised by the show of loyalty. If things had been different, it might well have been Spock who found himself at the wrong end of Stonn’s knife. Then again, Vulcans were capable of a cool, objective logic in even the most emotional of circumstances. If Spock said Stonn would not injure T’Per, then it was very likely so.

“Your back is aching,” Spock said. “I can see that it is so, Ma’khoi. Come.”

Spock was right; his back stung and throbbed from hours bent over the operating table, working laser scalpels and regenerators with the precision open heart surgery necessitated.

“Go to bed, Bones,” Kirk said. “Get some rest. You look like hell.”

His reflection in the computer monitor had told McCoy as much. He followed Spock out of the office and to the small living unit that was his home on planet Vulcan. Before the impending _t’hy’la_ ceremony required him to stay away for propriety’s sake, they had alternated between staying in Spock’s tent and his housing unit. Right now, McCoy was glad for the air-conditioned surroundings and his soft bed, as well as the shower. His scrubs clung to his back and legs, soaked to the skin. He probably reeked of sweat and blood.

“Let me,” Spock said after he had closed the door behind them. McCoy didn’t argue. He let Spock pull the shirt over his head and help him out of his drawstring pants, along with his underwear. Spock went into his little bathroom and activated the shower, programming it to exactly 40 degrees Celsius, McCoy’s preferred temperature.

“Come,” he said again.

McCoy stepped into the shower, not surprised when Spock discarded his own clothes and followed him inside the cubicle. At first, the Vulcan had been wary of water pouring down on his head, but by now he had come to appreciate the shower – an incredible luxury to a desert dweller who had had to haul every bucket of water from a deep underground well.

The water was heavenly on his weary body. McCoy held his face under the warm stream, as if it could wash away the last few hours and swirl them down the drain. He felt Spock’s cooler body move up behind him as the Vulcan began to soap him up. Spock went about it methodically, as he did with most things. He began at McCoy’s neck and shoulders, his long fingers kneading sore muscles and digging into tendons that yelped in protest. McCoy’s arms were next. Spock washed him thoroughly, cleaning each individual finger as if it were still coated in green blood. Then the back and stomach, those clever Vulcan hands rubbing him down, spreading the Starfleet-issue liquid soap as if it were some kind of ceremonial oil and McCoy’s shower a place of intimate bonding between _t’hy’la_.

“Isn’t this against the rules?” McCoy asked when Spock’s hands wandered lower still. “We never finished the ceremony.”

Spock buried his face in McCoy’s neck, his long wet hair clinging to McCoy’s skin. “We did not finish,” he said roughly. “But you are my mate, Ma’khoi. Ceremony is for others. This for us.”

Spock’s English deteriorated in moments like these, but McCoy found that he didn’t particularly mind. He kept his eyes closed, allowing himself to do nothing and simply let the sensations wash over him as Spock brought him to hardness. It took a little longer than usual, maybe (six hours in surgery did that to you). Spock took his time, however, stroking and pulling gently until McCoy felt that he was close. Those Vulcan fingers knew exactly how to touch him, how to exert the right amount of pressure in the right places and send telepathic caresses that were like a soft breeze on McCoy’s skin.

He came with a muffled groan that was swallowed by the water.

“ _Telsu_ ,” Spock whispered. _Bondmate_. McCoy could feel the Vulcan’s desire to bite his naked shoulder, an urge that was immediately repressed. Vulcans did this – they marked their mates. It was alien, somewhat perturbing and in the kinky depths of McCoy’s mind, quite an arousing idea, but Spock had never acted on the impulse.

_There will come a time when I must_ , he had said. _I do not wish to hurt you when I am in my right mind._

McCoy began to turn around, but Spock placed a hand on his arm. “Not tonight, Ma’khoi,” he said. “This is for you.”

McCoy hated to leave his partner wanting, but tonight, he was actually tired enough to comply.

Later, lying in bed with a thin sheet as his only cover (and a duvet for Spock; their compromise as McCoy could not sleep with the air-conditioning off), he finally said what he had been thinking ever since he’d seen Svai bleeding on the floor of T’Pring’s tent.

“Spock… did Stonn ever…” He didn’t quite know how to finish.

“Did Stonn ever try to kill me,” Spock said. “Is that what you wish to know, Ma’khoi?”

“I guess,” McCoy said. He knew Spock didn’t like to think of his time as a husband to T’Pring, but this… he couldn’t just leave it unspoken.

“He did not. Not like this. He… he threatened to push me into a canyon once. After that, I took care not to accompany him anywhere on my own. He beat me and put a snake in my bed, yes. But he never used his knife.”

“What will happen to him now?”

“I do not know, Ma’khoi. The Elders will decide.” Spock fell silent, staring into the semi-darkness of early morning. “Justice. That will happen.”

_Justice_. Well, it could mean a lot of things, and on Vulcan, not necessarily something McCoy wanted to witness. He was too tired to form a coherent reply, and so he simply lay back and closed his eyes.

McCoy slept as the Vulcan sun cast its first rays over the horizon, heralding another day of unforgiving heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	10. Svai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a little longer - I was on holiday and only just got round to posting it. Thank you to everyone who is following this story!

Svai woke in the afternoon of the following day. Or rather, was woken. The only way of bringing a Vulcan out of a healing trance was several good hard slaps, delivered by your friendly family doctor. Svai had shown all signs of resurfacing, and so McCoy gritted his teeth and began abusing his patient as required.

After the fifth resounding smack, Svai lifted an unsteady hand. “I… am awake.”

Relieved, McCoy lowered his hand. The young man on the bed blinked several times before his blue eyes focused on Spock, who was waiting patiently on the other side of the bed.

“Where… where am I?”

“The _rushan_ camp,” Spock said. “This is Ma’khoi, the healer. He saved your life.”

Svai turned to look at him. “I am grateful.”

“ _Ri shaya tonat ya’akash’e_ ,” McCoy said haltingly. It was the Vulcan version of ‘you’re welcome’, and literally translated to ‘I request no thanks’. When Kirk had first taught him the phrase, it had sounded almost rude to McCoy, but Spock assured him that it was anything but.

“How are you feeling?”

Svai closed his eyes, as if he were taking an inner inventory of his body. “Weak,” he said then. “There is some pain, but it is dulled.”

“That’s the painkillers,” McCoy said. “You’ll probably be in some pain for a while, so let me know if you need any more. Your wound is healing well. There should be no lasting damage, but you’ll have to take it easy for a few weeks.”

Svai licked his lips. “My throat feels sore.”

“Ma’khoi put a tube down your throat to help you breathe when your _katra_ was with the spirits,” Spock said. “The pain will soon be gone.” He held up a cup with a drinking straw. “The water should help.”

Svai took a few sips, then lay back, exhausted. “Where… is Stonn?”

“He is in the village under guard,” Spock said. “You are safe here.”

Svai closed his eyes and swallowed. “Safe for how long, brother? He will not rest until I lie dead. He told me so more than once.”

“What happened, anyway?” McCoy asked despite himself. His patient needed rest, and yet that boy was almost a child. It would do him no good to hold it all inside.

“Stonn… he hates me. I am not allowed to touch anything in the tent, and if I speak to his daughter, he flies into a rage. I do not share the family bed and I may not sit with them when they eat. My mother gifted me with a new cloak as a wedding present. Stonn ripped it apart and used it as cleaning rags. I…”

The boy turned his head away, but not before McCoy had seen the tears.

“It’s okay,” he said, resting a careful hand on Svai’s shoulder. “It’s okay, kid.”

“I… I tried to be polite and kind. My father told me that a second husband must be respectful and not try and take the first husband’s place. But Stonn won’t let me be. Lady T’Pring was gone and he said I had to go into the plains and gather fire shrubs. There had been a _le-matya_ sighted at the well. I did not want to go, and I told him so. He took off his belt and beat me, but I still wouldn’t obey. I was angry. I told him to go himself, and perhaps the _le-matya_ would find him and I would finally have peace. That was when… when he drew his knife and came at me. I don’t remember much after that.”

Svai’s breathing had visibly sped up as he recounted the incident. Checking on the bio monitor, McCoy saw that his pulse had quickened, as well.

“Be calm, little brother,” Spock said. “You are safe now. Stonn will not harm you here.”

The boy made an effort to keep his voice steady. “Not here, no. But I am not going back to them. I never wanted to be given to Lady T’Pring, but she paid a large groom-price to my grandmother, and I had no say in the matter. I… I want to go home to my clan. Men do not use knives on their co-husbands with the _Suk-tauk_.”

“They do not with the Clan of T’Pau, either,” Spock said gently. “Stonn is mad with jealousy.”

“I want to go home,” Svai repeated. “I am never going back to Lady T’Pring. Never.”

“And you won’t have to,” McCoy said with a glance at the bio monitor. “We’ll help you, okay? Just try and calm down. It’s okay.”

“You, _rushan_ ,” Svai said. “Can’t I stay with you? Spokh lives here. I will be a good servant, too, I promise.”

“Spock’s not a servant,” McCoy said, smiling to let the boy know that he had taken no offense. “And you shouldn’t worry about that now. Try and get some sleep.”

Svai didn’t look happy, but argued no more. McCoy upped his pain meds and watched the indicator slowly travel down towards a more acceptable level. Vulcans were tough when it came to pain, as McCoy had found out treating patients with broken limbs or festering sores who had traveled for days on a sehlat’s back. Maybe humans had been similar, a long time ago when analgetics weren’t a staple of conventional medicine. Still, the drug helped Svai to relax, and it wasn’t long until his eyes had drifted shut again. McCoy dimmed the bright artificial lights, immersing the ICU in the orange glow of the night lighting.

“They’ll let him go home, won’t they? Poor kid’s traumatized enough.”

Spock sighed. “I cannot answer that, Ma’khoi. It depends on the negotiations between his clan and our Elders.”

Not for the first time, McCoy felt a helpless anger at Vulcan culture and its pitiless rigor. “He’s not a piece of chattel, you know. Shouldn’t his wishes count for something?”

“Yes,” Spock said. “They should.”

His face was expressionless, and McCoy felt guilty at his outburst. He had no right to yell at Spock, who had been victim to very similar circumstances.

“I’m sorry, Spock. That came out wrong.”

“No,” Spock said. “You are right, Ma’khoi. A man is not a thing to be bartered for like wool or milk.”

They looked at the sleeping boy on the bed. He appeared even younger asleep; a child, really. Even now, his winged brows were drawn together in a frown.

“I’ll keep him here if I have to,” McCoy said quietly. “Make up some medical reason. It’s not right.”

Spock placed two fingers on his hand in reply.

* * *

Spock’s family returned from the village in the evening, Kirev riding on I-Chaya while T’Mar and her two husbands walked alongside.

Kirev jumped off as soon as he caught sight of Spock and ran towards him. Vulcan children did not often display such open emotion, but the little boy seemed not to care about proper decorum for once. He clung to his older brother who obligingly picked him up.

“Kirev, _pi’sa-kai_. What has you in such a hurry?” Spock asked gently. The boy said nothing and simply hid his face in the folds of Spock’s cloak.

“Things are not well back home,” Sarek said. “There are those in our clan who wish to see Stonn punished severely. Some say we must undergo the ritual of blood atonement to appease the angry spirit who possessed him. Some even believe it is the bonding of you, my son, to a _rushan_ _t’hy’la_ that incurred the spirits’ wrath.”

“Nonsense,” Spock said sharply. “Those are old men’s tales.”

“Indeed,” said T’Mar. “But old men’s tongues do not rest, nor do old women’s, for that matter. T’Pau forbade anyone to spread such rumors, but that does not mean no one whispers them in the privacy of their tents. The _pid-kom_ worries more about the _Suk-tauk_. A messenger has been sent to them to let them know of their clansman’s injury, and they will not be pleased.”

“There won’t be some kind of… retribution, will there?” McCoy asked. Ever since the time of Surak, Vulcans had been a mostly peaceful people. Still, clan and family were held just as dearly as the Tenets of Logic and Peace, perhaps more so. If one of their own was harmed, Vulcans had it in them to revert to their old violent ways, and sometimes did. Blood vengeance was not unheard of.

“The _Suk-tauk_ are gentle people,” Sarek said. “They will not come with their lirpas sharpened. But their Clan Eldest entrusted her grandson to Lady T’Pring, believing the young man would be treated well. Now he lies injured by his co-husband’s knife and would have died, had not the _rushan_ saved him. Their clan and ours have lived in harmony for over forty rain seasons. T’Pau does not wish to see that peace endangered.”

“ _Kaiidth_ , Sarek,” T’Mar said with a sigh. “What happened is not to be changed. We owe great thanks to you, Healer Ma’khoi, for saving another one of our own. At least no life was lost. Husbands, please assist Spokh in preparing end-meal while I feed I-Chaya. It appears we will be guarding your honor for a while longer, my son,” she added to Spock in a dry undertone. “The ceremony was never properly concluded. According to T’Pau, decency dictates that we stay with you until it is taken care of.”

Spock kept a remarkably neutral face at the prospect. He bowed to T’Mar. “Of course, my lady. You are always welcome in my tent.”

Selken, Sarek and Spock began to unpack the victuals Spock’s family had brought, followed by the usual lengthy discussion on what to prepare. Vulcan men took great pride in their cooking, one of the few domains where they took no orders from their women. A wife ate what her husbands decided to cook, or she went hungry. This, McCoy had learned, resulted in long and (to outsiders) tedious exchanges between male Vulcans on spices, herbs, techniques and equipment, which reminded him of sports talk back on Earth. (McCoy had never seen the appeal of that, either.)

Spock, kind soul that he was, sometimes tried to include him in what was clearly a male bonding ritual, but McCoy couldn’t for the life of him pretend to be interested in the advantages of _kap-yar_ flour versus _slok_.

He left Spock and his fathers to it, and went to the medical unit to check on Svai. Amanda was there, speaking to the young man in his native tongue while he ate some kind of evil-smelling Vulcan soup from a bowl. She looked up when she heard McCoy enter.

“Leonard,” she said. “Svai says he’s feeling much better.”

The bio monitors agreed with the assessment. Svai’s wound was healing fast, and his inflammatory markers remained within normal levels, which meant that any potential infection had been battled and vanquished by the strong Vulcan immune system.

“That’s good to hear,” McCoy said. “What’s that you’re having, Svai? Smells… interesting.”

“ _Plomeek_ soup,” Svai replied. “Spokh made it for me the _Suk-tauk_ way.”

“Sarek made it for me once,” Amanda added. “It’s… it doesn’t quite agree with human taste buds.”

“I take it you didn’t tell him?” McCoy said with a laugh.

“No.” Amanda smiled. “Back then, he could have served me fried sehlat dung and I would have told him I loved it.”

It was the first time he’d heard Amanda refer to whatever had been between her and Sarek. Hesitant to venture further into unknown territory and its potential pitfalls, McCoy changed the subject.

“You ready to sit up in a chair for a while, Svai? When you’re finished, I mean. It’ll do you good to move your legs a little, get the blood flowing.”

The boy ate another spoonful of soup. “I will do as you say, _rushan_ healer. Are my people here yet?”

“Your people?” McCoy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They are coming.” Svai sounded perfectly confident. “It cannot be much longer.”

Amanda shrugged at McCoy’s questioning look. “So he said. Maybe they _are_ coming. Sometimes Vulcans just know things.”

McCoy was reminded of the time he had accompanied Spock to one of the more remote settlements, back when the skin fever was still raging among the Vulcan clans. They had walked into the canyon where the clan lived when Spock suddenly grabbed his arm. “Not here,” he had said. “It is dangerous.” They took a different route, only to feel the ground vibrate under their feet ten minutes later. A landslide engulfed the very path they had been climbing down, an avalanche of rocks and debris that would have surely killed them. Spock was less than helpful when McCoy asked him how he had known. “You are my mate,” he had said. “Of course I knew.”

McCoy had seen enough of the universe to acknowledge the existence of things his philosophy – human philosophy – had never dreamed of. He wasn’t exactly surprised, therefore, when Kirk poked his head in the door a few minutes later.

“Bones, there’s a group of Vulcans coming. T’Mar says they’re _Suk-tauk_.”

Svai sat up in bed. “My people,” he said, trying hard to contain his excitement. “They’re here.”

And so they were. Kirk, Spock and McCoy stood and awaited their arrival, much like they had awaited the arrival of Spock’s clan all those months ago. There had been many Vulcan visitors since then, most of them patients who hoped to see the _rushan_ healer. The _Suk-tauk_ , however, had not come bearing their sick and gifts meant as a recompense. McCoy counted three women, all of them clad in ornate regalia, complete with lirpas and bronze daggers tied to their waists. A lone man accompanied them. He and one of the women had blonde hair and blue eyes, a recessive genetic trait found only in few clans of the area.

The three women came to stand in front of Kirk. The man (Svai’s father, McCoy assumed) stood at a respectful distance.

“Welcome, Elders of the _Suk-tauk_ ,” Kirk said, inclining his head. “Our water is yours, our tents are yours. May your visit be blessed.”

“May it indeed, _rushan_ ,” the tallest of the three women said. Her hair - hundreds of tiny blonde braids that had been worked into a complicated structure - gleamed in the sun. “I am Eldest T’Pol. I have come for my grandson.”


	11. Feretaya

_Feretaya_ , it was called.

Kirk explained that it translated to ‘assembly’, but the cultural context usually involved a matter of clan law. The parties involved gathered on neutral ground – base camp, in this case – and the Elders decided on what was to be done. Witnesses could be heard, a written code of law was consulted, and the Clan Eldest acted as an arbitrator, speaking on behalf of the accused as well as on behalf of the clan.

Kirk and Amanda both agreed that it was a rather progressive judicial system, compared to similar structures in human history. To McCoy, it looked alien and intimidating.

Stonn had been made to kneel in the sand, his hand tied before him. Someone had cut off his long braid, leaving him with short disheveled strands that hung into his face. His clothes were torn and dirty from his escape into the desert. He did not look up as the gathering formed around him.

Svai had not come, still too weak to attend the meeting, but his Clan Elders were there along with his parents, all of them in full ornate robes. They stood facing T’Pau, T’Les and T’Pring, who represented the clan of the accused.

Silence fell as the Clan Elders stepped forward and one by one laid their lirpas on the ground. It was a symbol of truce as much as a precaution. If one of the weapons was touched prematurely, the _Feretaya_ was over and any sentence null and void.

T’Pau drove a bronze torch into the ground, its flame almost invisible in the glare of the morning sun. “ _Feretaya_ ,” she called.

“ _Feretaya_ ,” the gathered Vulcans echoed.

“Once this torch has burned its last, the gathering shall be over and the last word spoken,” T’Pau said. “We begin.”

T’Pol stepped forward. “This man,” she said, pointing her thumb at Stonn, “this man you see before you attacked my grandson and stabbed him with a knife. His own co-husband. Svai would have died if not for _rushan_ magic.”

“Who do you call as witness for your claim?” T’Pau asked.

“I call Spokh, son of Lady T’Mar. I call Safik, husband to _Pid-kom_ T’Pau.  I call Ma’khoi, the _rushan_ healer.”

Kirk had briefed McCoy thoroughly before the _Feretaya_ , preparing him for the fact that he would be called as a witness. “ _It’s not that different from testifying in court_ ,” he had said. “ _Just answer their questions and you’ll be fine_.”

McCoy felt far from fine as he followed Safik and Spock to stand before T’Pau. It was a particularly hot day, one of those that made every move feel as if weighed down by lead. Sweat trickled down into the collar of his ThermoGarb.

“Spokh,” T’Pau called upon the youngest witness first, as was tradition. “Recount the events as you remember them.”

Spock told them how they had found the young man bleeding on the tent floor, how everyone had confirmed that the attacker had fled. Safik confirmed his story and added that he had found Stonn’s bloody knife next to Svai when he first entered the tent. “I used a piece of linen to stop the bleeding and called for Murov to go fetch the _rushan_ healer. My feeble knowledge of the healing arts could not have saved young Svai.”

McCoy knew for a fact that Safik’s knowledge was far from feeble – the man had provided fascinating insights into Vulcan medicine for Kirk’s book. In this court of law, however, surrounded by Clan Elders, even a respected man like Safik was expected to downplay his achievements.

“I confirm this man’s words,” T’Pau said, placing a hand on Safik’s shoulder. “My husband has spoken and the _Feretaya_ has heard. What woman confirms Spokh’s words?”

“I do,” T’Mar said, stepping up next to Spock and resting her hand on his shoulder. “My son has spoken and the _Feretaya_ has heard.”

“Ma’khoi,” T’Pau continued. “You are male, but you are also _rushan_. Our laws and customs are not binding on you. You may speak without a woman’s patronage, and the _Feretaya_ will hear. We ask you to confirm or deny Safik’s words: Would Svai have died without your help?”

McCoy cleared his throat. “It’s very likely, ma’am. The knife injured his heart and cut into the second atrium. Without surgery, I estimate he would have died of external and internal bleeding within 15 minutes.” He exchanged a glance with Kirk, who nodded encouragingly. “I should add that his injuries suggest no killing intent on Stonn’s part.”

“Clarify,” T’Pau said.

“You train your men and women to be efficient fighters,” McCoy said. “Stonn knew how to angle the knife to kill Svai instantly, but he didn’t. Svai’s injuries look as if he was attacked by someone in a blind fury. I don’t think Stonn actively decided to kill him.”

Her dark eyes never left his. “This man Stonn has harmed your _t’hy’la_ , and yet you speak on his behalf, _rushan_.”

“I speak on behalf of the truth.” McCoy glared, refusing to back down before her stare. “I thought that’s why we’re here – to find out the truth?”

“Indeed.” She raised a hand. “The witnesses may retreat. Lady T’Pring, one of your husbands has done the other a serious injury. Attend and answer the questions of the _Feretaya_.”

T’Pring’s face was a blank mask. “I attend, _pid-kom_.”

“Why does Stonn bear such hatred for his co-husband? Is it not a lady’s duty to keep the peace in her household?”

“It is, _pid-kom_. Stonn has been disciplined for his behavior, but he will not see reason. He has driven away my husband Spokh, and now he has attempted to kill Svai. He is… jealous, and there is nothing he will not do to have me for himself.”

“And yet you came to me, asking for my grandson to be given to you as second husband,” T’Pol said coldly. “Svai is only seventeen rain seasons, a mere boy, and yet you insisted on having him. Does it please you to watch your husbands fight for your attentions?”

T’Pring flushed. “I am a Clan Elder. Shall I make do with one husband like a common clanswoman just because this _duhsu_ cannot control himself?”

“You would rather see our young men lie dead?”

“No, I would not.” T’Pring turned to look at Stonn for the first time since the _Feretaya_ had convened. Her eyes were cold. “Stonn, you have given offense that cannot be forgiven. This council would hear what you have to say. I shall confirm your words, foolish as they might be.”

Finally, Stonn raised his head. His face was white but for two dark green circles under his eyes. “I – I beg forgiveness. I did not – I never meant to kill him. Please, my lady…”

“Tell the _Feretaya_ why you attacked Svai,” T’Pau said calmly.

“I- I do not know.” Stonn stared at his knees in the sand. “I told him to go gather fire shrubs and he refused. He became insolent and made me angry. I – I believe an evil spirit took possession of me. I was no longer in control of my actions…”

“Why did you run away?” T’Pau asked.

“I was – afraid. There was so much blood…”

“There are those who say you mistreated your co-husband even before the attack,” T’Pau continued. “Do you hate Svai? Do you wish to see him dead?”

“No!” Stonn cried. “I – yes, I disliked him. He is just a silly child and knows nothing of housekeeping or childrearing. I do not know why my lady chose him. But I did not mean to kill him! I swear I will never lay a hand on him again!”

“No you shall not,” T’Pring said, looking from Stonn to T’Pau and finally to the _Suk-tauk_ Eldest. “I do not need a husband who gives me nothing but trouble. I do not need a mate who shames me before the clans.”

She bent down and scooped up a handful of sand. “This sand is my marriage to this man.”

“No!” Stonn tried to get to his feet, and was pushed down by T’Les.

“Silence!”

T’Pring tilted her hand, letting the grains fall. “May the wind take it, may the desert take it, may the spirits carry it away. I cast you out, Sk’ren T’Lir Stonn.”

“No, T’Pring! No! No!” Stonn stretched out his bound hands, as if trying to reach the hem of her robes. “My lady, please!” His voice broke, and he began to sob. “Do not send me away!”

“Is this the justice of T’Pau?” T’Pol asked over Stonn’s pleas. “My grandson is nearly murdered, and his would-be killer goes free? Is this the law of the clans?”

“It is not, as you well know,” T’Pau said. “The law dictates that a murderer shall be sent away into the desert. Yet your grandson lives, if only through spirit magic. Stonn is not a murderer, but he has committed the deed of a murderer.” She paused. “This is what I propose. Stonn shall be turned out into the desert, as the law demands. If after one rain season he is still alive, he may return to live as a servant in my tent – or as concubine to Lady T’Pring, if she will have him. If she has taken any other husbands by then, he will defer to them and serve them as befits a third husband. His daughter T’Per shall suffer no loss of status, as she has given no offense.”

T’Pol did not look happy, but silenced the protests of Svai’s mother with a sharp gesture.“Our clans have long benefitted from a peaceful coexistence. Therefore I concur.”

“It is done,” T’Pau said. “Stonn, you shall be given a knife and a flint stone, and you shall leave this place before the sun sets. Go into the plains and beg the spirits to look on you in mercy. From this day onwards until one rain season has passed, you shall be dead to this clan.”

Stonn lay on the ground, his face hidden in his hands. His shoulders twitched, but he made no sound.

“Justice has been served,” T’Pol said (if there was a trace of sarcasm in her voice, no one cared to mention it). “ _Rushan_ healer. When can my grandson undertake the journey to the _Suk-tauk_ lands?”

McCoy forced himself to look at her, away from Stonn. “Five to ten days, I’d say.”

“Good,” she said. “When he is ready, send word to my clan. We shall come and get him.”

“I do not understand,” T’Pring said, frowning.

T’Pol’s blue eyes blazed. “Lady, you have proven yourself unworthy of my grandson. On grounds of negligence and abuse, I withdraw my consent, as is my right by law. Svai is no longer your husband, and shall return to live with his family, where he has never been harmed in all seventeen seasons of his life.”

“I paid-”

“You shall be reimbursed,” T’Pol said coldly. “That is all.”

“ _Pid-kom_ , she cannot-”

“It is her right, T’Pring,” T’Pau cut her off. “It appears you find yourself without a husband, lady. Perhaps you should meditate upon this new development.”

T’Pring raised her chin. “I will not accept this, T’Pau.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	12. Claimed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, I’m really sorry for dropping off the map like this and leaving you hanging there for three months. I had some rough personal stuff going on – family emergency, my SO being in the hospital – and I simply couldn’t find the time or the energy for fic-writing and posting.
> 
> The good news is, all my loved ones are once again healthy and safe, it’s the Christmas holidays and I can finally return to one of my favorite things and present to you the latest chapter of Bondmate. Thank you to everyone who left such thoughtful and detailed reviews – I appreciate every one of them, and they've helped find the courage to post once again after such a long break. Chapters will be posted regularly from now on, as I have in no way abandoned the story, and I hope you haven’t, either.
> 
> Happy holidays to all of you, and enjoy the new chapter!  
> Sita

“You have little choice but to accept our decision, T’Pring,” T’Pau said. “The _Feretaya_ has spoken.”

“Perhaps,” T’Pring said. “Lady T’Pol may take her grandson; he is hers if she so wishes. I will not endanger peace between the clans. But I will not be left without a husband.”

“Stonn is to be sent away,” T’Pau said sharply. “You may not take him back into your tent before one rain season has passed. Do not presume to disregard our laws, T’Pring.”

T’Pring inclined her head. “I would not, _pid-kom_. In fact, I wish to evoke one of our most sacred laws. I wish to make the ancient claim. Hear me, _Feretaya_.”

“T’Pring…”

“Hear me.”

“We hear you,” T’Pau said, her face a mask of stone.

“I bring before you this man, Elders.” T’Pring turned to Spock. “Spokh, attend.”

Spock stayed where he was, his back rigid.

“This man,” T’Pring continued as if she hadn’t noticed his refusal, “has been unwed for a rain season and a half. You know our law, Elders. If a rain season passes and a man has not been given to a wife, any woman may make the ancient claim for his protection and the safety of the clan. I make the claim, Elders. I claim S’ch’n T’Gai Spokh for my husband.”

Several voices, Sarek’s among them, began speaking at once, but McCoy heard none of them. He stared at T’Pring. She did not look at anyone but T’Pau, holding the _pid-kom’s_ gaze.

“Lady,” T’Pau said. “You cast this man out. You gave him as a gift to the _rushan_. Do you know what you are saying?”

“I do,” T’Pring said. “I offered to take Spokh back before, but he would not be my husband because of Stonn. Now Stonn is gone, so there is no reason why Spokh should not return to me.”

“He is _t’hy’la_ to Ma’khoi, a man who saved our children - your daughter.”

“He is not,” T’Pring said. “The ceremony was never concluded. A sign from the spirits, no doubt.”

“No doubt.” McCoy had finally found his voice, and for once didn’t care if he was breaking a hundred Vulcan customs at once. He could not remember the last time he’d been so furious. “Ma’am, I don’t pretend to understand what you think you’re doing, but if you think you can just ‘claim’ someone as an act of petty revenge-”

“I am a Clan Elder,” T’Pring cut him off. “I will not be spoken to like this… by a man.”

“I’ll speak to you however I see-”

“ _Kroykah_!” T’Pau’s voice silenced them all. “Lady T’Pring, you make the ancient claim. Spokh, what do you say?”

“I do not wish to become Lady T’Pring’s husband. I am promised to another. Ma’khoi is my bondmate.”

“He is not,” T’Pring said. “The blessing was not given. _Pid-kom_ , you know the law as I do. A man’s consent is not needed if more than one rain season has passed. Spokh will have a good life as husband to a Clan Elder, I assure you. No harm will come to him. But I will not be denied my lawful right.”

“And you would take a man who does not wish to live with you – who cherishes another?”

Several of the people gathered around began to mutter and hiss at this, but T’Pring ignored them. “A man’s mind is a fickle thing. He may cherish one thing in the morning and scorn it in the afternoon. Spokh will come to understand that it is best for him to live with his own kind, with a wife and children to take care of.”

“You are not my kind, lady,” Spock said coldly. “I do not wish to be your husband, and I will never change my mind about it.”

T’Pring smiled slightly. “You will, _pi’sasu_ – once the _plak-tow_ is upon you, you will do anything to be with me. I am willing to be patient and wait.”

T’Pau did not smile. She did not look at anyone – not the _Suk-tauk_ , not McCoy, not Spock – when she spoke next. “As it was in the beginning, so it is today. You have made the claim, T’Pring. Spokh is your intended.”

McCoy took a deep breath, but T’Mar was quicker. “He is not. _Kal’i’fee_!”

T’Pring whirled around. “You dare!”

“I dare, you _pi’tak_! I am Spokh’s mother. As such it is my right to challenge your claim.”

“But you are not his mother,” T’Pring said quietly. “Do you believe the clan has forgotten? Spokh is _mesh’ka_. He has no mother, no sisters by blood. No one has the right to challenge my claim to him, not even that _rushan_ healer.”

“But I do.”

Amanda had stayed in the background until now; McCoy had almost forgotten that she was there, too, watching the _Feretaya_ from a distance with the rest of the humans. Now she stepped forward, standing in front of the Clan Elders with her head held high, despite the fact that she hardly reached up to most of their shoulders.

“I may challenge your claim as Spock’s mother by blood, T’Pring. And I am. _Kal’i’fee_!”

“The _rushan_ is lying,” T’Pring said. Her face looked flushed now. “She cannot be Spokh’s mother.”

“She is,” T’Pau said calmly. “Your intended has a _rushan_ mother, and she calls you to the challenge, Lady T’Pring. What say you?”

“A _rushan_ may not challenge, _pid-kom_. It has never been done.”

“A mother may challenge when her son is claimed, lady. The laws are clear on that. Now take up the challenge or renounce your claim, T’Pring, as is the custom.”

“I will not renounce what is my right by law.” T’Pring turned to Amanda. “I take your challenge, _rushan_ , and may your blood soak the sand green.”

“Red,” Amanda said, holding her gaze. “My blood is red. There is much you do not know about me or my son, lady.”

“It is done,” T’Pau said. “The challenge has been issued and taken. The combatants will meet tomorrow evening at the Place of Rites. _Kai’idth_.”

She took up a handful of sand and threw it at the torch she had lit at the beginning of the _Feretaya_. The flame flickered and died, leaving behind a blackened bronze stave.

“Come, Ma’khoi.”

McCoy felt Spock’s hand on his arm and allowed himself to be led away.

His anger sat like a hard hurtful ball in the pit of his stomach.

###

“You must withdraw your challenge, mother.”

Spock sat crosslegged on a mat in his tent, facing Amanda, who had been given the comfortable cushion that befitted a guest of honor. McCoy could not remember when he had last seen the Vulcan so tense.

“Spock’s right, there’s gotta be another way,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Amanda ate a spoonful of the _barkaya marak_ Spock had prepared. “This is really good, Spock. Reminds me of the lentil cream soup your grandmother used to make.”

Neither Spock nor McCoy had touched their own dishes. “I am pleased,” Spock said tightly. “I beseech you, mother. Reconsider.”

Amanda ate another bite before setting down her bowl on the serving slab. “You two don’t seem to have much faith in me,” she said, looking from her son to McCoy. “I’m not going to let T’Pring slice me in two with her lirpa.”

“Amanda,” McCoy said. “Vulcans are about three times as strong as humans, and that woman’s a trained fighter. I don’t have to tell you this.”

“No, I know. I couldn’t win in a fight against her.”

Spock looked relieved. “You must go to the _pid-kom_ and tell her you forfeit. I… I will speak to T’Pau and ask her to release me from T’Pring’s claim. I have a mate, so there is no danger of me facing the _plak-tow_ unbonded. I need not be married off for the safety of the clan.”

“T’Pau won’t go against the law, Spock,” Amanda said. “She can’t. You know this as well as I do. T’Pring is within her rights.”

McCoy bit down on his lower lip. There were several choice suggestions running through his mind just what T’Pring could do with her rights… but his mother had taught him better than to use language like that in front of a lady.

“She’s twisting the law for her own gain,” he said instead. “The ceremony took place, with the _pid-kom_ ’s blessing. She’s basing her claim on a technicality.”

“Vulcans embrace technicalities,” Amanda said dryly. “T’Pau won’t release you, Spock. She’d lose the respect of her own people and that of the _Suk-tauk_ if she disregarded clan laws like that.”

“Then we’ll leave,” McCoy said. “Spock’s half-human, they have to give him citizenship on Earth.”

He felt Spock’s fingers touch his own. “I will go with you, Ma’khoi.”

Amanda sighed. “You might not believe it, Leonard, but there was a time about twenty-seven years ago when I was tempted to do the same. Just grab my Vulcan boyfriend and my son and run away to Earth. I would’ve done it, too, if T’Pau and Starfleet had let me.” She paused. “I might have done irreparable damage to Vulcan-human relations, but back then I didn’t really care. I was in love, just as you two are now.”

McCoy swallowed. “So what are you saying? That Spock should marry that… woman?”

“No,” Amanda said. “I’m not going to forfeit the challenge.”

“I will not let you be killed for me,” Spock said.

To McCoy’s surprise, Amanda chuckled at this. “You Vulcans, always so dramatic. I have no intention of letting myself be killed.”

“T’Pring-”

“… has to follow the law of the clans just as anyone else. And I’ve studied those laws for more than three decades, remember? There is something we can do.”

She told them. McCoy had to admit, it was worth a shot.


	13. Kal'i'fee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for sticking with the story, and especially for your understanding and good wishes for my family! It means very much to me to be welcomed back so warmly.
> 
> Enjoy the new chapter, and have a happy and healthy new year!
> 
> Sita

According to Spock, the Place of Rites had remained unchanged for forty generations. All of it – the circle of rock slabs, the brazier, the gong - hailed back to the days when the Old Ones had walked the sands of Vulcan. Even the rock bridge had withstood the test of time, holding firm for tens of thousands of Vulcan feet crossing it over the centuries.

McCoy knew this – and still felt as if something had changed. When T’Pau and her clan had accompanied them to the _t’hy’la_ ceremony, the atmosphere had been solemn, filled with anticipation and reverence for the sacred rite that was about to take place. The torches had burned in celebration, and the air had smelled of herbs and incense.

This time around, no herbs were burned. Torches had been lit, their flickering light reflected in the glint of the women’s armor and reminding McCoy that his intended’s people were warriors – peaceable, perhaps, and restrained by a philosophy that advocated reason and respect for life. But warriors, nonetheless.

T’Pau was there, as well as T’Les, Sarek and T’Mar, to represent the clan as well as Spock’s family. All of the women had donned the traditional bronze ‘heart shield’ – a concave metal plate strapped to the torso to protect the Vulcan heart from enemy weapons. Their braids had been tied into tight knots and pinned up with long bronze needles (a warrior could pull those out in battle and stab them into an unsuspecting enemy’s eye).

Sarek’s armor was not quite as elaborate, but he, too, wore a dagger and a heart shield in acknowledgement of the battle that was to take place. Spock was the only Vulcan at the site without armor. His role, as Kirk had explained to McCoy, was to stand in silence and wait until the fight was over. McCoy disliked this immensely; he hated to see Spock reduced to a possession with no say in his own fate.

“ _It is considered an honor for a man to be the subject of a ka’li’fee_ ,” Spock had said, but McCoy couldn’t see much honor in any of this. T’Pring had provoked this farce of a ritual for reasons of her own, and stood there bedecked in her finest armor, her face painted in green letters that spelled out God-only-knew-what. Probably curses to jinx her opponent. No, McCoy refused to be impressed. He’d met people like T’Pring back home, socialites who would sell their own grandmothers to climb that precious ladder into the right circles and the right clubs. Stonn had walked into the desert last night, eyes swollen and green, clutching the knife and flintstone he had been given. T’Pring had not even come to see him off.

Amanda had donned the traditional armor, but had decided to forego the face writing. She looked tiny as she stood in front of T’Pring, holding a lirpa as long as she was tall. Her face was calm. McCoy prayed that she knew what she was doing.

“Spirits,” T’Pau began. “A challenge was issued and accepted. Will you allow the crossing of blades on your sacred lands?”

A cloud of sparks sprayed from the brazier. McCoy had not seen anyone touch the embers or felt the breeze that might have done it.

“The spirits give their permission,” T’Pau said. “T’Pring.”

T’Pring stepped forward, took the mallet and struck the gong twice. “ _Kal’i’fee_ ,” she called over the hum of the metal.

Amanda took the mallet from her hand. “ _Nartor’e_ ,” she said, and brought the mallet down on the gong.

“As it was at the time of the beginning, so it is now,” T’Pau intoned. “Lady Amanda, Lady T’Pring, you have issued and accepted the challenge before the spirits. Here begins the act of combat for possession of the man Spokh. If both survive the lirpa, combat will continue with the _ahn-woon_.”

McCoy looked from T’Pring to Amanda. The Vulcan woman’s muscles were tense in anticipation of the fight, but Amanda did not even raise her weapon. Instead, she took a step forward and carefully laid her lirpa in the sand at T’Pring’s feet.

T’Pring stopped short. “What is this, _rushan_? Have you realized that you cannot win this fight?”

“I do not forfeit,” Amanda said. “Elders, I ask you to remember the words of Surak, Bringer of Peace: Let there be no more blood shed where reason may becalm the sands.”

“We remember,” T’Pau said.

“Surak says there is another way when two warriors face each other with their lirpas sharpened. Surak teaches us that the strength of the mind surpasses the strength of the body. The worthy warrior does not shy away from a test of her mind’s endurance.”

“ _Kal’i’fee olozhika_ ,” T’Pau said. “The Challenge of Logic. An honorable choice.”

T’Pring drove the blade of her lirpa into the sand. “The coward’s way out! To stand and talk where our ancestors fought for their lives!”

“Lady, I am certain I have misheard your words,” T’Pau said sharply. “Surely you did not mean to say that the Venerable Surak’s teachings were cowardly.”

T’Pring flushed, but held the _pid-kom_ ’s gaze. “Surak for all his wisdom was but a man. He did not understand that women must settle some matters on the battlefield and not in the lecture tent.”

T’Les spoke up. “Surak’s wisdom surpasses the limitations of his sex, T’Pring. His teachings were given to him by the Old Ones. To doubt them is blasphemy.”

Amanda went back to the gong and struck it once. “ _Kal’i’fee olozhika,”_ she called. “Lady T’Pring, I challenge you to a battle of logic. Will you accept?”

T’Pring looked at the Clan Elders. T’Pau and T’Les met her eyes calmly, their expressions disapproving. T’Mar’s face came very close to a smirk.

“Very well then.” T’Pring threw her lirpa down. “Do not believe that you made a wise choice, _rushan_. I will battle your logic and leave you humiliated before your own kind.”

She snatched the mallet from Amanda’s hand and brought it down on the gong. “ _Nartor’e_!”

“The challenge was issued and accepted,” T’Pau said. “As it was at the time of Surak the Wise, so it is now. Here begins the Contest of Logic for possession of the man Spokh. Lady T’Amanda, our custom demands that you state the problem of logic that shall be debated. The Elders will determine the victor.”

Amanda bowed to T’Pau. “I will state my challenge.” She looked back at T’Pring, her head held high. “I postulate the following: My son Spock should decide for himself whom he wants to marry.”

McCoy had not often heard a Vulcan laugh out loud, but T’Pring did. “You are making a fool of yourself, _rushan_. Withdraw your challenge, and I shall allow you to leave this place with the rest of your dignity intact.”

Amanda held the Vulcan woman’s gaze. “Do you believe you cannot prove me wrong, T’Pring? If so, I shall accept your forfeit.”

“I do not forfeit!” T’Pring was no longer laughing. “Your challenge is ridiculous. Anyone here can see that.”

“Then show me the logic behind your words. Do as the _kal’i’fee_ demands.”

“And so I shall,” T’Pring spat. “Spokh is a man. He cannot decide for himself.”

“Why not?”

“It has never been done.”

“The _rushan_ gave your clan a water harvester,” Amanda said. “You use it daily. This has never been done either, but I do not see you objecting.”

“That is different.”

“How so?”

“A water harvester is a thing, not a person.”

“So you are saying that customs must be upheld if they concern people, but not if they concern things?”

T’Pring seemed to sense the trap, but could not evade the question. “I suppose.”

“Surak the Wise changed many customs that concerned your people’s lives. According to your logic, his teachings should have been disregarded, is that right?”

T’Les hissed at this, and T’Mar snorted audibly, T’Pring narrowed her eyes at Amanda. “Of course not. What nonsense is this?”

“The logic of your statement has been disproven, lady,” T’Pau said calmly. “Will you continue?”

“Of course I will!” T’Pring’s face was flushed. “A man cannot decide for himself! Everyone knows that men’s reasoning is inferior and weak. Chaos would ensue if we let them do as they please.”

“Your daughter T’Per,” Amanda said. “She’s a strong and healthy girl, is she not? The pride of her mother’s house.”

T’Pring narrowed her eyes. “She is, _rushan_. What has this-”

“If not for the ingenuity of two men – Spock and McCoy – would your daughter live today? Or would the skin fever have claimed her and many others?”

“That was the spirits’ doing!” T’Pring’s flush darkened. “The spirits sent a cure!”

“The spirits help those who help themselves,” Amanda said, obviously quoting something. “Did not Surak himself teach us that only they who keep an open mind may receive the spirits’ advice?”

“Their find was an exception,” T’Pring said. “Spokh and Ma’khoi stumbled upon the cure like a child will stumble upon a well in the desert. Look around you, _rushan_. Men have no part in the important decisions of life. They sit in front of their tents, grinding herbs for endmeal and gossiping their days away with their neighbors. Would you have them meddle in matters of business and politics? Our children would be starving and our sehlats run off into the desert before one season had passed.”

“ _Let the women learn in silence with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence_ ,” Amanda said quietly.

T’Pring and the other Vulcan women stared at her. “What is this, _rushan_?”

“It is a sentiment written in one of Earth’s sacred texts,” Amanda replied. “For thousands of years, it was used to prove that women are inferior and should have no say in the important affairs of daily life.”

“What utter nonsense!” T’Pring cried.

“Nonsense, you say. Don’t Vulcan men suffer a similar fate? If they are not allowed any part in important decisions, what is left for them to do but the very things you accuse them of – staying at home and making do with what little freedom they are allowed? Human men accused human women of exactly the same thing for exactly the same reasons.”

“What would you have us do, _rushan_?” T’Pring stepped towards Amanda, well aware of the height difference between them. “You come here and question what has been taught for thousands of years. Shall we change our ways just because one round-eared little spirit said so?”

Amanda looked up at her, holding her gaze. “I’m not asking you to change your ways, lady, nor would I presume to do so. I’m asking you to consider possibilities. That is all.”

“Spokh cannot decide for himself,” T’Pring said. “It would be unnatural to let him. He does not have the mind for it, nor does any other man.”

“McCoy,” Amanda said without taking her eyes off T’Pring. “You know Spock better than anyone. Tell us about his mind.”

McCoy had not expected to be a part of this, but he found that the words came easily, almost as if he had been waiting to say them for a long time. “Spock is extremely intelligent by Vulcan _and_ human standards,” he said. “He spoke fluent English after only a few months of living with us, and trained himself to be a doctor’s assistant. He works with technology far beyond anything he encountered previously. He helped me develop cures not only for the skin fever, but also for the sleeping sickness. He’d never admit it because he’s far too modest, but he’s exceptional.”

Spock instinctively raised his hands to cover his face, but McCoy held his eyes, shaking his head slightly. After a moment’s hesitation, Spock lowered his hands again.

“It must be his _rushan_ blood,” T’Pring said, glaring at Spock’s bold refusal to hide his face. “It’s unnatural for a man to show such intelligence.”

Suddenly, T’Mar stepped forward. “My husband Sarek managed my _sehlat_ herd when I lay injured from a riding accident. He kept the records and handled the trade for almost a rain season. I am not ashamed to admit that business was better than it ever had been when I alone was in charge. We have run the herd together ever since, and I have never come to regret it.”

“Of course _you_ would-” T’Pring began, but fell silent when T’Pau spoke next.

“My husband Safik is well versed in the medical arts,” she said. “He knows more of herbs, tinctures and healing techniques than anyone I have ever met, be it man or woman. I believe he sewed your open arm after a _jarel_ horse had knocked you down, did he not, Lady T’Pring? Was it unnatural for him to do so?”

“You would turn against me!” T’Pring turned to her peers. “You would back this _rushan’s_ skewed logic and betray me!”

“We speak of those who are beloved to us,” T’Pau said. “Shall we betray _them_ , pretending their achievements are nothing just because they are men?”

“Shall we bow to your empty words just because you are our clan sister?” T’Mar asked. “The _rushan’s_ logic is superior, T’Pring. You may as well admit it.”

“You would let Sarek do as he wishes?” T’Pring cried. “You hypocrite! Is he not your husband, your property?”

“The law labels him such,” T’Mar said, a wry smile on her lips. “But Sarek is no more my property than the air I breathe. If he chose to leave me and return to his _rushan_ love, what could I do to stop him?”

At this, Sarek spoke for the first time. “I shall be forever grateful to Lady Amanda. When I was young, she showed me that there is more to life than service to a lady, and she gave birth to my son. But my bondmate is Lady T’Mar. I chose her and I will be faithful, of my own choice. As it should be.”

He looked at Amanda, who held his eyes and smiled. “As it should be,” she echoed.

“You see,” she said, turning to T’Pring. “Sarek chooses to stay with the woman who allows him the freedom of choice. You, who would force a man into marriage, stand here alone, one man banned, one injured and frightened and one unwilling. Your insistence on treating men as inferior hurts not only your husbands, but also yourself.”

Silence fell. T’Pring stood motionless, her back rigid, and yet her entire being seemed tense, as if she was on the brink of snatching up her lirpa and fighting back in a way that was certain to ensure her victory.

It was T’Pau who eventually broke the tension. Walking past T’Pring, she went over to the gong and struck it with the mallet. “ _T’Amanda skilsu_!” she called.

_Amanda the victor_. McCoy watched T’Mar pick up the mallet next.

“ _T’Amanda skilsu_!”

T’Les joined them. She hesitated, then resolutely took the mallet from T’Mar and struck the gong hard. “ _T’Amanda skilsu_!”

McCoy hadn’t planned it, but he suddenly found himself walking up to the gong and striking it with the mallet. The metal hummed and sang from the repeated blows. “Amanda _skilsu_!” he repeated.

Spock was next, striking the gong and ignoring T’Les’ scandalized expression. “Amanda _skilsu_!”

He handed the mallet to his father, who took it with a nod and a slight smile. “Amanda _skilsu_!”

When Sarek struck the gong, a cloud of sparks rose from the brazier, proving excellent timing on part of the spirits (or the wind, although McCoy had not felt a breeze this time, either).

“The spirits give their consent,” T’Pau said. “Lady T’Amanda has won the challenge. Spokh is hers.”

“He is not,” Amanda said. “Spock belongs to no one but himself… and his bondmate, if he so chooses.”

“I do,” Spock said. “I choose Ma’khoi.”


End file.
